Wires
by AndrogynousInk
Summary: Fire destroys, fire purifies. Two tragedies, each with flame, have led Alice Liddell to where she is today. An unexpected call for help lands her in the land of another's vengeance, another to whom she is intimately connected. How long can the wires of the past bind before they are broken? [Ruvik x OC]
1. Chapter 1 - Those That Lead

**[A/N]:** Hello, and welcome to the first chapter of _Wires_, an incredibly long story centered around Ruvik from _The Evil Within_ and an original character. This will span a long length of time, from events before the game to ones after. Obviously, it is going to be AU, as I've changed the ages of Ruvik and Laura at the time of the fire, inserted an OC, and have no idea about the story after the game due to the fact that the DLC has yet to be released. Anyway, the main pairing is Ruvik x OC, though others are explored.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing related to _The Evil Within_, nor do I own the lyrics to any songs that might appear. The name Alice Liddell and her family belong originally to Lewis Carroll, with her appearance drawing heavily from _American McGee's Alice: Madness Returns_. This is a nonprofit work.

* * *

"_Mirror on the wall, frame the picture,_

_reflect this kiss to wish us all goodnight."_

\- "Goodnight", The Birthday Massacre

Slender digits trail across a faded photograph, leaving clear impressions in the dust that forms from the mindless negligence of grief. A family of four stares from the aging frame – a man, his wife, two daughters – and there is something mischevious about the gleam in the elder girl's eyes, the slight curl to the lips of the younger. All share sleek, dark hair, thick and gleaming in the glare from the camera's flash, yet, where the mother and younger have eyes that are so vividly green that they do not seem real, the father and elder share the same blue hues. Like father, like daughter. Like mother, like daughter. Three of them have one other, simple fact in common.

They are deceased.

Alice Liddell stares at the imprints her fingers have left in the dust, the ones of her idle hand tapping a mindless tune against the file on her desk. It is unbearably hot in the office she shares with her partners, especially for October, and, even with their personal fans on full and the window unit blasting cold air (when it isn't too busy dripping water uselessly; she's lost count of how many times they have complained and been ignored), even though they've shed their coats and loosened their ties, if they have one, sweat still pools in the hollows of their throats, tracks down their spines. The file, itself, is not particularly important. It contains information on a missing person's case she has worked since she was placed into this department, though the leads have long since dried up.

Across from her, Joseph Oda, one year her senior in age and three years in terms of the force, straightens his shoulders and sighs. Their office is small, nearly too small for the three desks they have crammed inside, but it makes it easier to swipe from someone else's desk when necessary. His glasses slip precariously down his nose, only for him to push them back, a gesture as ingrained in him as the almost rhythmical motion of Sebastian Castellanos reaching for his flask. They are scheduled to take a rookie, Juli Kidman, with them to visit a crime scene as soon as they are cleared by the lab techs to do so. Of the three, he was the most accepting of her assignment to them; Alice had been indifferent, Sebastian, irate. A team of three was unlikely enough, a team of four almost always unwieldy.

Sebastian glances up at the sound, eyes refocusing from the haze of whatever thoughts he had been tormenting himself with. Alice knows that, should she feel inclined to peer at the folder on his desk, it would contain all information relating to the death of his daughter and the disappearance of his wife. She has only ever offered her aid once. The hostility of his response had convinced her that to do so again was unwise. He reaches for his flask, scoffs when he finds it empty, and lights a cigarette instead, something that she unconsciously mimics. The two men catch the movement and say nothing. They have learned that she does not mean to do so, that it is as involuntary as the way her speech pattern reflects who she happens to speak to, that sometimes she tries to stop and cannot.

"About time, isn't it?" The words escape the oldest detective on a plume of smoke. Joseph nods, while Alice merely busies herself attempting to blow rings. "What are we looking at, again?"

None of them need a reminder, yet Joseph fills the void easily. "Double homicide, or a murder-suicide. There's not enough evidence to form conclusions yet. The call came in an hour ago when the landlady, who had gone to collect overdue rent, found them in their living room."

Sebastian nods, slants his eyes to the black-haired woman on his right. "Any thoughts, Liddell?"

She shrugs, seems to reconsider. "A murder-suicide seems unlikely, given what we saw earlier." Her fingers slip into her pocket to toy with a small container there, a tic that gives away the depth of her thoughts. "The wounds on the husband were inconsistent with a suicide; the angle was wrong, and the splash pattern, from what I've seen in the photographs, do not match the usual ones."

A shadow at the door alerts them all to the presence of Kidman; tall, even taller in her boots, with a stylish bob and classically pretty face, the woman is studying them in the way she has taken to since she arrived. It as though she is not learning from them, but rather observing them the way a scientist would potential subjects. Alice and Sebastian have confided their unease in each other. Joseph has made no move to do such, and, by the faint coloration that dusts his cheeks whenever the rookie is around, Alice doubts he will. She knows that expression well enough, had seen it on her own face and on the face of . . .

No. There is no time for that. Not now.

Sebastian grunts as he stands, fingers tugging at the knot of his tie until he is able to unbutton the first two clasps of his shirt. "Time to go. We still riding with that officer – what's his name?"

"Connelly," Alice supplies, and he flashes her a grateful look that lasts barely a second.

"Right. Connelly. You got everything you need, Kidman?"

The woman nods, and Alice notices with some irritation that she is shifting, eyes trained on the now-closed file on her desk. She slides it into the top drawer of her desk, slamming it shut and feeling vindicated when Kidman straightens, a scowl on her usually blank features. Joseph, as usual, is going over the points of the case with Kidman, Sebastian trailing after them as they leave the office. He pauses at the door, turns, finds Liddell sliding on the coat he and Joseph had bought her for her birthday last year.

"Coming, Liddell?"

He feels a familiar pang of sadness when her gaze meets his, laden with frustration and sorrow. Like her, he has made no move since their initial meeting to help with her personal case. He knows the pain of losing someone close to you, knows the helplessness that arises when nothing seems to fit together even though the evidence is airtight. Too good, artificial, and almost always a sign of a cover-up of some kind. Sebastian knows that the file contains information relating to a fire that claimed the lives of her childhood friends, just as he knows that she is convinced it was arson, though all evidence points towards an accident. Because there was no funeral, she believes they are alive somewhere, perhaps in a hospital as unknown persons.

The quiet _tap-tap_ of her combat boots on the floor pull him back to the present. The two begin the trek side-by-side, Alice unconsciously lengthening her stride as he simultaneously shortens his, falling into a steady, comfortable pace. Even with the added height of her shoes, Alice, whose lean, slender figure makes her seem taller, is a mere 5'4" to his 6'; he has made a joke of resting his elbow on her head in the past, though now it merely amuses him to think that someone so small could inspire fear in so many of their co-workers. Viridian hues flicker up to his face, noting the amusement tugging at his mouth.

"Something funny, _Seb_?" The emphasis is drawn out, taunting. They both know that neither will bring harm to the other, no matter how angry they might become.

He glances at her, noting the way her lips, rosy without lipstick and of that shape that is not quite full, but nice all the same, are fighting not to turn up at the corners. "You tell me, _Allie_," he replies. "Something humorous about this to you?"

Alice checks to ensure that Joseph and Kidman are far enough ahead, pitches her voice low. "I didn't think a fish could live out of water." Beside her, Sebastian covers his laugh with a forced cough. _Cold fish_, that was how they had taken to referring to Kidman when she wasn't around. Cruel, yes, but their instincts, honed by years of misfortune, were too tuned to trust the rookie.

Other than Joseph's attempts to elicit conversation from Kidman, the remainder of the walk to the cruiser is quiet; each is forming their own conclusions about what the evidence will tell. Connelly, an older man who has never expressed any desire to be anything but a beat cop, is waiting for them in the car, cold air blasting despite the cool rain that falls. Joseph and Kidman slide into the backseat and, after a quick, silent battle of rock-paper-scissors against Sebastian that she loses, Alice joins them, crawling over Joseph to settle in the middle. It is not quite uncomfortable, though it is a little tight, and Alice glares at the back of Sebastian's head as he stretches out and makes a content noise. The bastard.

Connelly begins talking almost as soon as he has pulled out into the light traffic. His topics are broad, ranging from sports to old cases, and he seems content to continue chattering so long as one of them gives occasional acknowledgment. Tuning out the officer, Alice allows her mind to drift to the past, fingers once again stroking the box in her pocket. There had been four of them then, she remembers, three girls and one boy – the eldest two as bright as the sun, the youngest withdrawn, all deeply intelligent in their own ways. Her sister had been clever with people, she mused, able to make them dance how she wanted with a bat of her eyes or a gentle plea. The other had been as warm and kind as the sun. Lizzie had always said that Alice's intelligence was buried in the fact that she was simply good at everything she tried, and had always encouraged her to do her best. And the boy . . .

"_Promise me, Allie? Promise?"_

The crackle of the radio tugs her back; she shakes her head to clear the cobwebs as the operator announces, "All units, all units; 11-99, expedite cover code 3. Beacon Mental Hospital." Translation: _Officer needs help. Extreme emergency at Beacon Mental Hospital. Use lights and flashers to expedite assistance_.

Connelly is quick to respond. "184 copy; code 3. ETA 3 minutes." He is already turning on the siren, the flashers, before the operator responds, and is quick to turn down the road that will take them to the hospital rather than the apartment complex.

Another crackle. "Copy 184."

"Sorry, detectives." Connelly glances in the rear-view mirror, expression serious. "I know you're on your way to a case, but we're going to have to make a detour."

On her right, Joseph asks, "Sounds serious. Is it a riot?"

"Call went out just before I picked you up. Said it was 'multiple homicides.' Half a dozen units already on scene." As the operator begins to speak again, Connelly continues, eyes gleaming the way a spinster's would when divulging gossip. "Maybe it's the ghost of that doctor who went schizo and chopped up all those patients."

"That's not what happened." Alice and Sebastian share an amused look as Joseph straightens and leans forward. He has always loathed misinformation of any kind, and probably finds the older cop's conjecture insulting, in his own way. "Some patients disappeared. Some kind of scandal?"

"Still, gives you the creeps, doesn't it?" Connelly is enjoying this a little too much, Alice decides. An avid fan of horror films and novels herself, she nonetheless knows that it's better to keep such things away from the job. While imagination is good – key, in fact, to make some of the jumps that evidence may require – getting carried away can impair one's ability to focus.

At the word 'disappeared', Sebastian turns to face the three unfortunate souls jostling against each other in the back. "Joseph, you think there's a connection?"

"It's a possibility." A gloved hand raises, waves the infamous black notebook in the air. "I believe the records were sealed."

After the operator makes another plea for response from on-scene officers, Sebastian picks up the car's microphone. "Dispatch, this is Detective Castellanos in 184. What's the situation, over?"

"184, be advised. Some problem -" Static begins to corrode the connection. "- at Beacon Memorial - radio."

"Is there any –" He begins, but halts. A moment later, Alice understands why. A high-pitched, pervasive ringing has begun to echo from the radio; similar in pitch to the after-effect of standing too close to an explosion, but much louder, it seems to almost burrow into her ear. Or, perhaps, it is digging _out_, because, for one implausible second, it feels as though it is originating inside of her head. "God damn it!"

"Jesus!" A snarl from Connelly as the car momentarily swerves before righting itself on the road. Beside Alice, Joseph removes his glasses and shakes his head, yet Kidman shows no response, keeping her gaze trained on the scenery passing by. Alice rubs the bridge of her nose, applying minimal pressure to ease the slight headache that looms threateningly.

Almost as if he is distracting himself, Sebastian turns his attention towards the least experienced in their group. "Junior Detective Kidman, any thoughts?" There is something mildly mocking in his tone. This is a test, not a friendly inquiry.

Unfazed, Kidman meets his eyes in the mirror. "Nothing yet," she utters blandly, "I'm sure we'll know everything once we get there."

As she is finishing, Connelly pulls in front of the mental hospital's gates. Large, and wrought from heavy black iron, they stand as a barrier between the insanity of its inmates and the regular population. The building itself seems more like a manor than a hospital, with columns and large windows decorating the exterior. At the top, a large tower ends in something that almost resembles a lighthouse, from within which a bright beam swivels over the city – the hospital's namesake, it's _beacon_. Inscribed above the gate, beneath the emblem that marks all stationary and patients' uniforms, is the inscription _Spes in Mundo Obscuro Pharus_ \- "a beacon of hope in a dark world." Alice resists the urge to scoff, barely, as she crawls out of the car behind Joseph.

Already she can see the multitude of empty cruisers littering the parking lot in a ring around a central area that houses a stone recreation of the hospital emblem. The downpour makes her glad that she had the urge to tie her hair up that morning; its length would have made it a hindrance otherwise. She and Joseph move to stand closer to Sebastian. Joseph's voice is wary when he speaks.

"What do you make of it?"

Instead of a response, the eldest detective gives Connelly an order. "Connelly, contact Dispatch and let them know what's happening. Joseph, Alice, Kidman, you're with me. We're going to have a look around."

The gates are open enough that there is no need to do anything else with them; the four detectives pass through with ease. Sebastian pauses at the entrance, aware of Alice doing the same, and scans the area. It is unnerving, so many flashing lights and barriers wrapped with yellow tape bearing the words _Police Line Do Not Cross_, because it seems more as if, rather than being attacked or killed, all responding officers had simply . . . disappeared. There was no blood on the ground (perhaps the rain had washed it away?), no empty shell casings to mark the use of firearms. At his side, Alice sighs, glances heavenward, scuffs the ground with the toe of her shoe.

"Want me to check the cars?"

He nods, and she slinks off, walk graceful and lithe, to begin a quick search of each vehicle. She is puzzled to find that all spare ammo has been left behind. Surely, if responding to a call like "multiple homicides," the officers would have taken it with them? Especially since there was no indication of whether it was a single perpetrator or many working together. Some of the doors on the cruisers have been left open, something she has seen when a cop is forced to fire from the cover the car offers, yet there are no bullet holes in the metal, no indication of any violence in the surrounding areas. Only the oppressive emptiness marks that something has gone gravely wrong.

She rejoins her team just as Sebastian opens the main doors. The smell of blood, coppery and wet, wafts out, strong enough to make all of them pause. Through the crack, she spies outstretched hands and stained scrubs, crimson liquid already beginning to coagulate where it has puddled under the bodies. Sebastian grunts and covers his nose, Joseph halting a few steps behind, face pinched with the start of worry.

"Smells like blood," he says softly, pulling his gun from its holster.

As he goes to enter the building, Alice close behind, hand on the butt of her gun though she leaves it holstered for now, Sebastian nods. "Alright. Stay sharp." He pauses in the threshold, head turned to address Kidman, who is attempting to follow. "We're going to check it out. Don't let anyone else through the door."

Her protest is immediate. "I can be an extra set of eyes."

"We don't know what's happening here." His voice is firm, if not a little irritated. "You're our backup."

Inside, the reason for the odor becomes evident. Blood is splattered across the floor and furniture, spurts of it drying on the walls. Lamps, chairs, and couches have been overturned in a struggle. Some of the deceased were taken by surprise, wide eyes staring at nothing, still in relatively the same position they had been in before their demise. Others had tried to run, or fight, if the sprawl was any indication. Here are the shell casings, she realizes, scattered throughout, bullet holes in the reception desk and some of the walls. What had happened here? Who – or what, since she doubted any one person could have done all of this – had slaughtered these people? Why?

She follows Joseph, aware of the steady tread of Sebastian's shoes as he takes the time to fully explore the room. Alice is curious about the security footage, a notion Joseph shares, if his direction stays true. The door to the security office has been flung open, but the interior is free of the gore that decorates the outside. A man is slumped against the wall (had he run in here, hunting for sanctuary behind the sturdy door?); Joseph is at his side almost instantaneously. Judging by the coat he wears, he is one of the resident doctors. A nameplate on the left breast pocket reads simply, 'M. Jimenez.'

"Someone alive in here!" Joseph calls, and the heavy footfalls increase to a jog until Sebastian appears in the doorway. Alice has joined Joseph on the floor, fingers feeling for a pulse, which she realizes immediately to be foolish, as the man is mumbling fearfully, eyes focused on nothing in his shock. There are no wounds that she can see; a quick glance at Joseph reveals that he, too, sees nothing that would indicate physical trauma. A lucky survivor, then.

Sebastian kneels as Joseph stands, hand coming to rest on the doctor's shoulder. "Are you injured?" His tone is more urgent when he adds, "What happened here?"

" . . . Can't be real . . ." The doctor says, and, from his voice, it is apparent that he believes this to be true. His vocals do what his body is not, shaking, words tumbling in a staccato rhythm. " . . . Impossible . . . Ruvik is . . ."

"I've got him." Joseph is already returning to the man's side, his scanning of the outer room revealing it to be safe enough to ignore for the time being. "The security cameras might tell us something."

Alice follows his gaze to the array of monitors on a nearby desk. She chooses to stay near the doctor and Joseph, leaving Sebastian to peruse the contents himself. There's no true logic to the decision, and she will regret it later, but some inner working of her mind urges her not to move from her place, that it is safer to stay low and unnoticed should anything happen. The 'pop' of gunshots echoes faintly from the screen. A moment later, Sebastian jerks back.

"What the hell?" He mutters.

And that is when the impossible occurs. A man who had been nowhere near them before (they would have heard him approach, despite his lack of shoes, and she would have seen him due to her position facing the door) appears in the room, form wavering for a micro-second as though he has literally teleported there. The odd anomaly reminds her of the way programs had glitched in the film _The Matrix_, but there is nothing benign about the hostility of his stance, the coldness of his gaze. A warning cry bubbles in her throat; the man, perhaps realizing that she is what can truly give him away, is in front her so suddenly that she has no time to react as the ice pick in his hand flashes towards her face. There is a brief moment of pain, and then . . . Nothing.

Somewhere, _Clair de Lune_ begins to play.


	2. Chapter 2 - Those That Follow

**[A/N]: **Welcome back! Two chapters in one day? Hell yeah! This chapter is where the plot actually truly begins, as this is when the characters are immersed in STEM. Ruvik will make a few appearances, but he won't begin to play a major role until the next chapter or so.

As a side note, a guest reviewer on the first chapter told me to put this story in the cross-over section; I suppose they were remarking on the fact of what Alice's name and appearance draw from, but, beyond that, there are very few similarities, so this story will stay within the _Evil Within_ section.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing related to _The Evil Within_, nor do I own the lyrics to any songs that might appear. The name Alice Liddell and her family belong originally to Lewis Carroll, with her appearance drawing heavily from _American McGee's Alice: Madness Returns_. This is a nonprofit work.

* * *

"_Maybe I'm a different breed,_

_or maybe I'm not listening._

_So, blame it on my ADD, baby."_

\- "Sail", AWOLnation

Waking up is a tedious process. There is a pain in her head that seems focused on her orbital region, though, when she blinks her eyes open, there is no immediate wound. Groggy in the aftermath of whatever had just occurred, it takes a few moments before she realizes that she is bound to a table, shirt soaked with blood and God knows what else. All of her limbs are attached, at least, and she does not feel the numbness generally associated with heavy blood loss or grievous injury. Her head lilts, gaze focusing on the corpses swinging from hooks in the other side of the room, though her view is limited by the poorly-constructed walls on either side. After listening to be certain that she is alone, Alice begins the process of escape. A slow, steady rotation of her left hand has the cloth used to bind her wrist loosening; within minutes, she is able to pull her hand free, and immediately sets about unfastening the rest, until she is able to roll off of the table.

She is quick to put distance between herself and the surface, shedding her coat, which is useless now due to the amount of liquid that has seeped into the fabric. Losing it here pains her, as it had been a gift from Sebastian and Joseph to celebrate both her birthday and her fourth year as a member of the team. It has seen her through many cold, rainy days and cases. As she balls the article in her hands, she scans the rest of the area, alert to every creak of the chains and whisper of wind. There is a door set into a wall not too far away, a chute beyond that. Instinct tells her that the door is locked, and with, no keys in sight, she settles on the chute. Careful, as quiet as she can be given the state of the floor, she creeps to the opening. Her heart jerks to a halt as the hatch slams open, depositing a body on the tray beneath.

Head resting on the edge of the tray, a moment passes as she regains her breath and allows her heart rate to settle. Then, with a decisiveness born from the knowledge that, should she wait, she will not progress, but rather settle into a sort of stupor, she grips the latch and jerks it up, holding it open long enough to wiggle into the cramped space. Once it closes with a deafening _'clang'_, total darkness descends. The space is too small for Alice to retrieve her lighter from her pocket, so she waits until her eyes adjust to begin the climb. It is long and difficult, made more so by whatever liquid coats the surface of the metal, and twice she nearly loses her grip and is forced to wait, again, until her panic recedes.

The sound of paper crackling beneath her heel draws her attention as she exits, covered in blood and various other fluids she'd rather not think about. The writing on the note is an elegant scrawl, familiar though she cannot place it, and spells out _'At the end of the hall is an elevator that leads outside. You would be the one who escaped. You could be the one who survived. –R'_ Her brows furrow in confusion. R? Could that be an allusion to the man the doctor had been so frightened of, Ruvik? The name in itself tugged at some hidden place in her mind, some knowledge that she had possessed as a child. Without much thought to the gesture, the note is folded and placed into her pocket.

Surely enough, there is an elevator at opposite of her. The hallway is too narrow and cluttered to be truly safe, and yet she reaches the elevator with no issues. Her hand is mere inches away from the button marked '_1F_' when the door at the very end slams open, Sebastian half-limping, half-running through. Their gazes lock; as the doors begin to slide closed, she slams her hand on the button that will keep them open, leaning out of the elevator, hand extended towards her partner. What follows him is something ripped from the nightmares of everyone in the world. The man, if he could even be called that, is a towering, stained monstrosity, head caged and neck collared, wielding a chainsaw with deadly accuracy.

Words are spilling from her before she can stop them, even as she draws and aims her gun. "God damn it, Sebastian, move!" They are nonsensical, she knows. The detective is going as fast as he can, considering his condition.

_Wait_.

A heartbeat as she lines up the sights with the knee of the man chasing Sebastian.

_You have to feel the shot_.

Another as Sebastian draws closer, the chainsaw slicing the air dangerously close to his back.

_Now._

A single, loud report as she fires, the bullet tearing through muscle and bone to exit and embed in the floor, the psychopath losing his footing and stumbling to the ground. He is only down for a second, perhaps less, but it is long enough for her to drag Sebastian into the elevator and punch the button that will bring them to safety. He falls against the wall, breath huffing from his lungs, left leg stretched awkwardly in front of him. Now that he is closer, Alice can see the cause of his distress. The cut is long, deep, shearing through his calf. There is little doubt as to what caused it, and there is not much she can do to fix it. He watches her curiously as she kneels next to him, pulling off her button up and tearing it into manageable strips of cloth to bind the wound.

A pained hiss rips from him as she wraps his leg, tugging harshly to ensure that the fabric will not slip away when he moves. When she is standing again, he holds a file out to her, face unreadable.

"What?" Her tone is amused, teasing.

Sebastian grunts and waves the file in her face. "Take it. You've got more of a head for this science stuff than I do."

A slow blink as she takes it and begins to read.

_13:00 – STEM system operation test begins._

_13:15 – Success. Confirmation of brainwave synchronization; losses minimal. Continuing experiments. Agent collects the data._

_13:30 – Anomaly occurs. Not with the subject; the stenographer claimed they weren't feeling well and then fell into a coma for reasons unknown. Doctor orders the STEM system terminated._

_13:45 – Staff begin complaining of nausea and falling unconscious one after another. Those who can still move plan their escape from the hospital, but for unknown reasons are unable to. Though the STEM system should have been deactivated, subjects maintained brainwave synchronization with the host._

Alice glances up at him. "What do you want me to do with this?"

"What do you make of it?"

"Sounds like the hospital was doing some sort of experimentation involving the brain." She taps the file against her chin, dried blood flaking off onto the neckline of the black tank-top she wears. "I guess it backfired. I need more to go off of before I can figure anything else out, you know."

"What kind of fucking hospital is this?" Their conversation ends when the elevator screeches to a halt, gates clanking open to reveal the ground floor. The hallways is brightly lit, bodies, gurneys, and wheelchairs littering the floor. They have only taken a few steps when what feels like an explosion rocks the building, bits of plaster raining around them. Swearing and stumbling, the two run, slamming through the doors until they are outside. What they see should never have been possible, let alone occuring, especially since Krimson City is near no major fault lines.

The city is collapsing. Glass and steel glint in the weak sun, smoke pouring from buildings as they fold in on themselves, teetering until they topple to the ground. The sound of a siren draws their attention to an ambulance speeding in reverse towards where they stand; when it halts, Connelly, disregarding the cruiser he has rammed out of the way, reaches over and flings the passenger door open. There is a microphone in his hand.

"Detectives!" Seeing their hesitation, he yells, "Get in! Get in!"

The sound of glass shattering above their heads is all the motivation they need. Connelly slams his foot onto the accelerator – the ground is breaking up beneath the wheels. Realizing that they are about to be left behind, they break into a sprint. Despite his injury, Sebastian reaches the open door before her; he yanks her in after him, resulting in her landing in an ungainly sprawl on his lap. Something on the roof of the hospital catches her eye as they speed away. Shock sprawls across her face when she sees – or think she sees, at least – the same man who had attacked them in the security room standing on the edge, tattered cloak billowing in the wind.

A rough bump elicits a range of pained noises from the people settled in the back. Alice scans them. Kidman is settled directly behind the driver's seat, and, across from her, the doctor sits with a boy dressed in the white uniform given to patients of the hospital. A second sweep reveals what she already knows, yet refuses to accept. Joseph is not there. As the doctor attempts to calm the boy, she feels Sebastian shift beneath her to do what she has already done, sees the dismay on his face when he comes to the same conclusion she has reached.

"Hey . . ." His voice fades, then strengthens. "Where's Joseph?"

Connelly's reply is harried, panicked. "Man, I'm sorry, but he never came out. I'da waited, but . . ."

Sebastian scoffs, twisting harshly to face the front. There is a brief moment where their gazes connect, and he sighs and reaches up to ruffle Alice's hair. There had been a time when neither of them had been very fond of Joseph. Worried for Sebastian's job and Alice's safety, he had reported them both for drinking and reckless behavior, respectively. It had taken months of seeing the precinct shrink before the Chief had allowed them back on active duty. While he had saved their jobs, both had felt betrayed in their own ways, and it had taken nearly a year before either of them had truly trusted him again. Since then, perhaps due to the level of concern he had shown for them, the three of them had become a unit that functioned as a whole, closer than if they had been bound by blood.

A faint whimpering resonates from the back. "Please settle down, Leslie . . ." The doctor pleads, trying to hold the boy steady. Alice studies him curiously. He is pale, nearly the same color as the fabric covering him, with white hair and eyes too dark for him to be an albino. A nutrient deficiency or some sort of harsh shock, perhaps, had caused the altering of his hair color. Deep bruises spread from his lower lid the the top of his cheekbones. Her mind lists the possible causes without truly meaning to.

". . . Settle down, Leslie," the boy repeats, a mantra to keep him safe. ". . . Settle down, Leslie . . ."

Swearing loudly, Connelly weaves erratically through the streets, the destruction of the city raging around them. To Alice, it almost seems as if the destruction is _chasing_ them, as if some vengeful god has decided that they should be punished for a transgression they remained ignorant of. A building, and then a crane, collapse, coming within inches of crushing the ambulance and everyone inside. For a moment, there is peace, and the three in the front attempt to catch their breath. And then the ground in front of them begins to shift, a row of a Rubik's cube shifting at the hands of an angry god.

Alice stares. "Oh, you have _got_ to be shitting me," she breathes, aware of Sebastian's grip on her hips tightening.

As Connelly steers them towards the ever-diminishing gap between the buildings, Alice's mind drifts back to her childhood, to those long gone. _I'm sorry_, she thinks, _I'm sorry I couldn't keep my promises. I'm so sorry._ She is dimly aware of Sebastian muttering something similar to his wife and daughter, of the boy sobbing in the back, and then . . . They are through. It is near, and they lose the mirror on the passenger side, but they slide through the space and rocket around the building, slowing down once they reach the calm streets on the other side.

Sebastian begins to toy with the radio around Alice. There is no response, only the irritating whine of feedback, which only worsens when Connelly drives them into a tunnel. "Damn it," Sebastian swears. "Are we cut off from everyone?"

"Everyone must be dead," Connelly replies wearily.

Gracing the officer with one of his infamous scowls, Sebastian thumbs the button that opens the connection between the cab and the back. "Everyone all right back there?"

Kidman glances up from where she has crouched in front of the boy. "Just a few bumps. We're fine."

Speaking over the repetition of Kidman's words by his patient, the doctor snaps, "We will be once we're far away."

Sebastian nods. "A little further and we'll be fine." He switches his attention to Alice. "And you?"

She peers at him, looking more exhausted than he has seen her before. It worries him to realize the toll this ordeal is taking on her, to know that there is very little he can do to help. Alice has always been more sensitive than him or Joseph, something she covered beneath a cool, tough facade, something that she only showed to children or traumatized survivors. Her fingers rest on her lap, her head on the glass of the window.

"Fine," she answers after a moment of thought. "Tired."

"You saved my ass back there," he says gruffly. Then his expression softens. "Thanks."

She shrugs. "You would have done the same for me."

He offers a strained grin and is beginning to reply when something in the rear-view mirror causes his face to pale considerably. Alice twists to peer through the barrier that separates the cab from the bay, and feels dread coiling in her gut. The robed man from the hospital is standing just beyond the three passengers, his gaze, from what she can tell, leveled on the boy rocking back and forth in the doctor's grip. Without warning, he looks up, and their eyes lock through the glass. There is something hauntingly familiar about his eyes, and she feels as though she should know him, yet she does not. How could she forget someone so heavily scarred?

Suddenly, he is there, inches away, stare drifting from her face to settle on the way Sebastian's arm loops around her waist, acting as her seat belt. Something so heated, so hostile, warps his expression before it settles back into apathy. The moment Sebastian turns to get a better look, he disappears, edges blurring as he does. With his departure comes the piercing ringing, drilling through her head, pressurizing her skull until she feels that it must explode; Sebastian lets out a strangled noise behind her, grip tightening until it is almost painful.

From the back, the boy begins to cry, "Fall! Fall!"

Connelly jerks the wheel and the ambulance scrapes against one of the tunnel's walls. Turning to reprimand him, Sebastian withdraws in horror, pulling Alice closer to him, pressing her against the door and attempting to wedge himself in front of her. The officer's skin has turned a sickly pale gray, his veins are darkening to black and spreading beneath his flesh, and festering blisters are rising, pulsating as blood gushes from his nose. He is gasping, struggling for air that will not come, tongue black and swollen in his mouth, eyes rolling wildly in agony.

A sudden pounding on the glass, as well as Kidman's cry of, "Look out!" alerts them to the end of the road. With no time to stop, they can only watch helplessly as the ambulance shoots off the edge of the road into empty air, hanging for a fraction of a second before it does exactly what the boy had been worried about before. As they plummet, something rips the passenger door away from the cab; strong arms wrap around Alice and yank her from the vehicle. There is a sharp pain in the side of her neck, and her vision fades quickly, taking her consciousness with it.


	3. Chapter 3 - Those That Connect

**[A/N]:** Hello, hello! First, let me say that I am absolutely blown away by how many people are enjoying this story; I expected the number of new followers to drop away after a day or two, but it has increased steadily all week. Thank you, all of you, so much for your support – even if you don't leave a review, the fact that you add this story to your favorites or your watchlist is huge motivation for me to write. Secondly, I'd like to go ahead and say that this story is set to update every week between Thursday and Sunday, with the majority of the updates probably coming on Saturday, unless I plan to post two chapters.

A big shout out to _SaphiraRyuuka_ for all of their help and ideas!

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing related to _The Evil Within_, nor do I own the lyrics to any songs that might appear. The name Alice Liddell and her family belong originally to Lewis Carroll, with her appearance drawing heavily from _American McGee's Alice: Madness Returns_. This is a nonprofit work.

* * *

"_I called her over, and asked if she was improving;_

_she said, 'Feels fine. It's wonderful, wonderful here.'"_

"Strawberry Gashes", Jack Off Jill

_The sound of children's laughter rings over the field, rising above the twisting stalks of sunflowers. A flock of sparrows disperses in surprise. From the forest of flowers, the figure of a girl, small and slender, emerges, chased quickly by a boy with pale hair and glittering eyes. Two older girls stroll out leisurely, watching the younger ones with obvious amusement, smiles lighting their faces. The eldest is as tall and willowy as a reed, with incredibly long, wavy black hair, fair skin, and the same ice-blue eyes as the boy. Clad in a vivid red dress, she is the embodiment of grace._

_Next to her is a girl who is tall and curved, tan skin spattered with freckles. Her own blue hues are chips of sapphire framed by thick lashes. A blue dress hugs her figure prettily, contrasting pleasantly with the sleek, black hair her family possesses. Her full lips are inclined to smiling, and dimples adorn her cheeks. Her younger sister, currently fleeing, is a waif of a girl, pale and thin in her white dress, black hair cropped to her chin and green eyes, iridescent in the afternoon sun, are framed by the same smokey lashes. Her skin is free of blemishes, though her feet, due to her lack of shoes, are rather filthy._

_The boy, hot in pursuit, in tall for his age, and rather thin, with features already displaying the sharp contours he would have as an adult. White-blonde hair, cut in an even, old style, is pressed to his forehead with sweat, his nearly transparent eyebrows drawn down in determination. His clothing is very formal – a white, button-up shirt with a high collar; a red tie that disappears into a black waist-coat; and black dress pants the meet the top of his polished, brown shoes. The attire, once pristine, has a large stain of mud on the back, the reason for his irritation. _

_Elizabeth Liddell, who staunchly refuses to answer to answer to anything other that Lizzie, turns her head to address her companion. "How long do you think he'll continue? Alice is quite agile; I doubt he'll be able to catch her."_

_Laura Victoriano laughs softly. "Ruben is surprisingly stubborn when the mood overtakes him. I wouldn't be surprised if he never stopped."_

_A startled scream grabs their attention; the boy, Ruben, has caught his quarry. A quick inspection reveals that he did so by less than fair means, cutting back through the sunflowers to confuse her and snatch her from behind. He lifts her, though it is a struggle, allowing her legs to kick in protest. Her squirming results in Ruben stumbling backwards, and the two end up falling, a small _'oof'_ escaping Ruben as he lands on his back, Alice slamming into his chest. Lizzie is nearly doubled with laughter, and even Laura can barely contain her giggles. How not? Ruben is always so collected and calm; to see him like this, considering the recent tension between him and their father, is refreshing._

"_Ruben! Let go!" Alice cries, wriggling in his grasp. She hadn't meant to make him mad, she'd only wanted his attention to show him the butterfly she'd caught. Maybe flinging a fistful of mud at his back hadn't been the best way to go about it, but it wasn't as though she'd intended to do harm._

_The boy tightens his grip in response. "Not until you apologize!" He is indignant, and, in his mind, rightly so. He had been talking to his sister about something important, and then she had _assaulted _him for no reason at all!_

_Alice is nothing if not obstinate; she redoubles her efforts to free herself. Irritated with her unwillingness to cooperate, Ruben flips so she is beneath him, sitting on her stomach and holding her hands against the ground. Despite his aggravation, he is gentle with how he positions himself. As a boy of twelve, even though he is thin, he could still hurt the seven-year-old girl if he is not careful. She huffs, blowing strands of hair away from her face. He stares at her seriously, lips compressed in an imitation of his father. It is an expression he uses due to its effectiveness on him when he is trouble._

_Before he can speak, Laura is at his side, chiding him softly. "Ruben, if what you said earlier is true, this is no way to act. You could injure her."_

_He looks up, meeting her warm gaze, and, so slowly that, at first, it seems he will not move, he stands, pulling Alice to her feet with him. Laura's words have reminded him of why he was so eager to see his playmate today, and his face colors darkly. Last night, Laura had been in the process of teasing him about his future prospects, calling him endearing names and swearing that he would leave a trail of broken hearts behind him, when he had said something so sweet that it had sent her into a fit of squeals and laughter. _

"_Mm, Alice . . .?" For once, he is uncertain of where he stands._

_The girl, busy dusting off her dress with her sister's help, shifts her gaze to him. She is pouting he realizes, and, for a moment, he is afraid that she will not speak to him. Then, she does. "What?"_

"_Would you, ah . . ." Seeing his hesitation, Laura nudges him in the back, eyes meeting Lizzie's over the heads of the children. Both of them are barely able to restrain their grins. "Ah, um . . Promiseyou'llmarrymeoneday?"_

_Laura cannot contain her laughter any longer. "Oh, Ruben," she breathes, taking in the confusion on Alice's face as she tries to puzzle out the gibberish spewed at her by her friend._

_Finally, she opens her mouth. ". . . What?"_

_Ruben takes a deep breath. He can feel the warmth of his sister at his back, smell the scent of oncoming rain in the air. He can name all of the parts of the brain and explain what most of them do. Compared to that, this should be simple. "I said," he repeats, slowing his words, "promise me you'll marry me one day?"_

_Scarlet blooms in the girl's cheeks. Behind her, Lizzie reaches out to ruffle her hair softly. She knows that Alice has harbored a childish love for Ruben, even if she is silent on it, for some time now. Ruben is not satisfied with her silence. "Promise me, Allie? Promise?"_

_So quietly that the wind nearly drowns her out, the girl replies, "I promise . . ."_

_A sharp prod in his back urges Ruben forward, scowling faintly at Laura as he goes. His fingers dig into his pockets, searching until they graze the edge of the ring of stems and blooms that he had made (technically, Laura had crafted it; Ruben had proved to be too impatient when the stems had continued to break); he had been worried that it had been crushed when he had fallen, but it is intact when he pulls it out of his pocket. He does not want to risk breaking it, and so he simply holds it out for Alice to take. Shaking digits grip it, so careful that it might have been fine china. Later, Lizzie will show her how to dry and press it to preserve it._

_For now, Alice slides it onto the third finger of her left hand, where she has seen her mother wear her ring, and smiles brightly at Ruben. She has never been happier. _

_She never will be again._

The throbbing in her neck is what finally causes her to awaken. Viridescent hues flutter open, rosy lips thinning as a slender hand raises to press gingerly against the sore area. She recognizes its location at the base of her skull as one that is weak to sharp blows, which can induce a lack of consciousness. Whatever had happened, she was lucky to be alive; too much force could cause damage to the spinal column, shutting off brain functions. She would have died quickly as her organs shut down, lungs and heart going first. Alice groans, forces herself to stand and get her bearings. She remembers the ambulance, remembers the fall, but there is no wreckage nearby, no indication that it might be in the near distance.

Instead, dark foliage spreads in every direction, broken only by a path worn in the dirt. The trees are twisted, gnarled, vaguely ominous in their shape, the grass thick and tangled where it does not cover the path. The air is devoid of any natural sounds; no birds sing from the branches, no wind whistles through the gaps in the trunks. There is too much light for it to be late in the evening, yet not enough to be the middle of the day, and it is weak and watery where it filters through the leaves. She glances thoughtfully at the path that twists behind her, then tracks it with her gaze until it disappears into the shadows.

"Right," she says aloud, unsure of why she does. The words fall flat in the dead air. Still, the sound of her voice brings a sort of resolve. "Forward it is."

As she walks, her hands drops, fingers sliding into the pocket of her jeans until they touch the container, which she withdraws without much thought to the gesture. It is incredibly thin, barely any thicker than a matchbook, and made from a dark, durable metal, silver vines engraved along the edges. Its miniscule weight is comforting to her. For a terrifying moment, she had worried that it was lost to her, because there is no way she can find it in this strange place, but it seems as though it cannot be misplaced, having survived a multitude of bizarre events. Still . . . a soft hum escapes her as Alice returns it to its place. She will have to remember to check for it when she can.

The sound of a crackling fire lures her to the edge of the forest. To her left, the ground drops away, a severe cliff angling towards the violent surf below. The trail extends on, sometimes so close to the edge that it appears that it must have formed suddenly, meandering to a stop by one of the most dilapidated houses she has ever seen. Broken bricks tumble into erratic piles, empty windows yawning widely while their glass glitters from the ground below. If she were anyone else, she would rush to the building in a desperate search for life, but she is wary and not inclined to trust the lack of reliable cover beyond the line of trees, so she stays where she is and observes. Other than the occasional rustle of wind and her own soft, steady breathing, silence reigns.

Finally, she moves, nearly silent as she glides low, crouching behind the tree or shrub along the way. A wooden fence separates the weed-infested yard from the road; Alice pauses behind it to survey her new surroundings. When no threat is apparent, she closes the distance between herself and the door, sliding it closed once she is beyond its threshold. The interior is in just as poor of a shape as the exterior – rotten boards that creak warningly beneath her weight, collapsed walls, destroyed furniture, a roof that is more holes than shingles – and there are no useful items that she can see. Loathe to move on without a more thorough search, she begins to rummage through the still-standing drawers and closets, and manages to scavenge a few bullets and a double syringe filled with some odd green fluid.

"Hurts, hurts, hurts . . ."

"Hm . . .?" The voice is familiar. It takes a moment for the realization that it belongs to the mental patient, Leslie, to dawn, but, once it does, she is quick to make her way to the source. The boy is huddled against a wall, hands clasped to his ears as though they will shield him from the horrors of this new world. Alice makes her approach calm and steady; she is uncertain of what, exactly, he is being treated for, and has no desire to exacerbate any symptoms. Once she feels she is close enough, she halts, hands raised in the universal gesture of no threat. "Leslie?"

He looks up at her, and she feels her heart break, if only a little. It is obvious that he is beyond terrified, pupils dilated until the dark gray of his eyes is obscured by black, and, from the dirt smudged on the knees of his uniform and the bloody scrapes on his palms, she knows that he has run and fallen and gotten up to run again until he simply could not anymore. There is the soft rustle of denim as she kneels next to him, hand outstretched to ruffle his hair is a gesture that is both motherly and comforting. Leslie recoils away for an instant, and then leans into it, whimpering quietly beneath the touch. Alice waits until he is sufficiently settled to stand again, gently tugging him to his feet along with her.

"What do you say we find somewhere a little safer, huh?" Her voice is light and teasing. "Maybe a little cleaner, too."

"Safe, safe," he mumbles, and seems to relax more each time he repeats it. "Safe, safe, safe . . ."

Alice could not have explained what happened in that moment. Yes, she had always harbored a certain softness for children, but he was not a child, not really anyway. There was something about him, something about the pale hair and downcast expression (_Father is furious with me, Allie, but I don't know what I did_) that tugs at her (_I'm sorry, Allie, I didn't mean it, I was just trying to make you stop_), warms a part of her that has been cold for so very, very long. Her mouth is opening before she can stop it, the words spilling out in a contract that she never had any intention of forming.

"I'll protect you. I promise."

* * *

It was the eyes that had saved her.

When he had entered that room, needing no one but that accursed doctor, his only thought had been to remove the unnecessary variables from the equation. The woman should have been first, as she was the one closest to him and had been the first to see him, but her eyes . . . A green so vivid that an artist could not have captured it, shards of jade and mica flecked throughout. He knew that gaze, remembered it. It brought back memories of children dancing, a scratched record playing old jazz from a gramophone, ones of laughter and joy, and a feeling of a loss so great that it had changed everything.

He had watched her, when he was not busy, and left a note to lead her to safety if she was so inclined to follow it. He had seen her get into the ambulance, though he had not seen how, and the sight of another man touching what was undoubtedly _his_ had awakened a fury in him that he thought he had forgotten. Jealousy, yes, that had been jealousy, yet he had still saved her from the worst of the crash at the cost of separating her from everyone else. Not that it mattered, he supposed, as it meant that it was less likely for her to encounter that man, _Castellanos_, again. There had been other things that required his attention afterward, and he had left her near the path, unconcerned with what should happen if one of the Haunted found her before she awoke.

It was the distress, or, rather, the sudden lack of it that had drawn him back. He watches, curious yet detached, as she comforts the boy, fingers threading through snowy locks and carefully ridding them of tangles, snags, and leaves. For a moment, that irrational envy rears its head again; he disregards it with some difficulty, unaware of how his fist clenches and relaxes at his side. Her voice is different than he remembers, melodious and warm, though it still retains a piece of the accent she had possessed as a child. The lovely girl had grown into a beautiful woman, though her features had lost their mischevious cast over the years. Each sentimental rumination is carefully considered and filed away for later examination. He does not have time for them now.

Ruvik appears in front of her while her proclamation is still hanging in the air. Her eyes widen and, with reflexes honed by years in her line of work, she pulls the boy behind her, angling her own body to form a barrier between Leslie and Ruvik. Now that he is closer, he can see how strongly she favors her mother – the symmetrical, heart-shaped face, almond eyes, small nose, full lips – but the shadows in the hollows of her eyes have nothing to do with genetics. He cannot stop the smirk that forms when her hand drops to her holster, only to find it empty. A soft curse escapes her as she reaches behind her to pull her knife from its scabbard, and she holds it loosely at her side.

"Are you going to stab me, _Allie_?" There is no kindness in the sardonic monotone of his voice. "I thought you to be more intelligent than that."

Alice falters, retort dying on her lips. Again, she is plagued by that restless notion of nostalgia, the idea that she should know this man, _does_ know him, if only she could force herself to remember. To reassure herself that she does not, in fact, have any history with him, she scrutinizes him, gaze lingering long enough to commit each detail to memory, from the piercing silver of his eyes to the horrendous scars to the tattered cloak and pants he wears. There is something, something (_Promise me, Allie?_) and she cannot connect it, cannot bridge the gap between what she sees in front of her and what she has witnessed before.

"Ruvik," she returns, mimicking with near perfection the tone he uses. "That's your name, isn't it?"

A brief inclination of his head, though he continues with his previous line of dialogue as if she had not spoken. "And for what?" His look is dismissive when it shifts to Leslie, cowering behind her. "Him?"

"No, no," the boy moans. "Danger, danger."

Alice moves to block him entirely from Ruvik's line of sight. "If I stab you, it's because you're a threat. Doesn't matter to who."

Ruvik feels something coil in his gut, an emotion both familiar and foreign to him. He cannot resist the urge to move closer, steps arrogant and measured, the distance between them fading with a slow steadiness. "I know who you are," he says, and there is a sadistic pleasure as she flinches back, eyes narrow and suspicious. "I know what you _crave_, what you _fear_." A pulse of energy from him warps their surroundings, transporting the boy somewhere relatively safe. "Are you going to be able to live with yourself, knowing what I'm going to make you do?" He notes with amusement the warring ways her body reacts to his increasing proximity and velvet threat. "It's a pity that they dragged you into this."

He comes to a halt in front of her, arm extended so that his fingers can graze the smooth skin of her cheek. "But, no matter." Another wave of energy causes the ground beneath her to split open, and he relishes the look of startled fear on her face when she realizes that his grip on her is the only thing keeping her from falling. Ruvik allows himself to lean in, gaze locked on hers, stopping when there is so little distance between them that their lips graze when he speaks again.

"You're _mine_." The words are a dangerous rumble. "To do with as I please."

And then he lets go.


	4. Chapter 4 - Those That Scar

**[A/N]:** Welcome back! A warning for this chapter, and several of the ones after it: for reasons that will be explained later (if you think you know it, guess in the comments, and I'll PM you to let you know if you're right; if you are, you can request a line of dialogue or a specific scene to be placed into the story, as well as having a shout-out in the revelation chapter!), and due to the way the STEM system works, Alice is going to experience a different story than Sebastian, Joseph, and Kidman. However, the stories will intersect; this is to keep the story from being a replica of the events of the game.

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing related to _The Evil Within_, nor do I own the lyrics to any songs that might appear. The name Alice Liddell and her family belong originally to Lewis Carroll, with her appearance drawing heavily from _American McGee's Alice: Madness Returns_. This is a nonprofit work.

* * *

"_Maybe we're victims of fate. Remember when we'd celebrate?_

_We'd drink and get high until late, and, now, we're all alone."_

– "Protect Me from What I Want," Placebo

She aches.

There is no doubt about the bruise forming across her back (she is lucky, she thinks, that her spine did not shatter upon impact), no illusion in the pain that radiates in heated waves across her shoulders. The fall had been impossibly long, twisting through warped hallways until she skidded to a halt and the rooms righted themselves, and should have been fatal, yet there is no more damage than the time she had fallen off of the table as a child. Alice spends some time on the floor, tracing the patterns the panels make on the ceiling, allowing the cool tile to soothe the contusion on her shoulder blades. Some part of her protests – the floor is _filthy_, surely crawling with a myriad of infectious bacteria – and is ignored. She notes dully that her clothing, skin, and hair are mostly cleaned of blood and dirt, wonders why.

The knowledge that she is only as safe as long as she is moving finally spurs her to get up and take better stock of her surroundings. The room is . . . Her breathing stops. No. Not possible. This place is long gone, demolished along with the rest of that ghetto years ago. Children's scribbles decorate walls crafted from once fine wood, warped with a lifetime's worth of neglect and poverty. A single, threadbare cot is pressed to one wall, a badly chipped table next to it with a vase filled with wilted flowers settled on top, surrounded by dried petals. A metal desk takes up most of another wall, topped with a multitude of files, and medicine cabinets line the other. She knows that, should she turn, she will see a steel chair with leather straps on the arms, legs, and headrest next to a large, dirty window.

The door, painted a shade of white that has faded with age, is closed. Alice stares at it and feels a cold lump of fear begin to grow in her chest. She tears her gaze away, reminding herself that she is still, save for the knife gifted to her by Sebastian last month, unarmed. Skin crawling, she searches the room thoroughly, and manages to find another of those strange syringes, a clip with a few bullets, a badly dinged medical kit, and . . . Yes! Hidden in a stubborn drawer of the desk is her handgun, a .40 cal Beretta, the standard issue of the Krimson City Police Department. She slides the current clip out and is relieved to see that it is full, a blessing in this nightmare of a world.

It takes what feels like an eternity for the courage needed to open that door to manifest. For a moment, she is a child again, grit in her hands and blood in her mouth, and there is a ghostly anticipation of the sting of a ruler against her palms. The rusty hinges squeal as she forces the swollen wood free of its frame and steps through, the scent of must and decay flooding her nose. There, on the wall, are faded marks in chalk and ink, showing the growth of each child through the years. Her mind mechanically recites the layout of the building; she dawdles as she debates between the lobby and the kitchen, and then decides to check the lobby first.

It is a shell of the vibrant room that she recalls. The windows, so tall and grand in her youth, are crusted with grime, the boards nailed haphazardly across them allowing watery strands of light to filter through. The receptionist's desk is badly splintered, the wallpaper peeling to show the moldy wall beneath. Oddly enough, the bulletin board, which had always contained flyers for obscure businesses, and the newspaper stand are both intact, and seem to be in near-pristine condition. At the moment, both are empty, but there is an odd, almost antique audio player on the desk, a bloody file next to it. Curiosity gets the better of her; Alice crosses the room in long strides and presses the button marked 'play.'

A voice she identifies as Ruvik's fills the air. "_Experiment number four, subject numbers four through thirteen: brain wave activity diminished but synchronization achieved. Subjects should begin experiencing a shared consciousness. Previous trials indicated rapid deterioration of consciousness. Their minds became an exquisite mass; an amalgam of mental carrion. I'll have to connect myself if I want to experience their terror before it diminishes._"

_Sensual_, her mind muses, _rough, cold, and oddly sensual_. A rough shake of her head does not entirely dispel the rumination, but it does push it back far enough that she can focus on the task at hand. The file is a direct copy of the one Sebastian had given her in the elevator, with a single line added – or, perhaps she had simply overlooked it before. She reads over it, drawing the connections between the audio log and the information in front of her; connected minds . . . was such a thing possible? She thinks about the rapidly changing environment, the impossible events that have occurred thus far, and then she stops. Jumping to conclusions without more data is foolish, she decides, and places the file back on the desk, eyes lingering on that final, closing observation.

_14:00 – He . . . That man appeared._

From behind her, something lets out a rusty squeal. There is no time to think, no time to react, as hands clamp around her arms and legs, fingers tugging at her hair and clothing, dragging her backwards. She fights for purchase, finds none, swears and struggles to free at least one of her hands so she can utilize her gun, but to no avail. There is the loud _'crack!' _of splintering tile and wood as a chandelier lands where she had been standing only moments before, obliterating the audio player and most of the desk beneath it. Rather than releasing her, the hands stiffen until they could have been made of granite, becoming shackles that lock her in place, while everything in the room adopts a faint blue tint.

"Fuck," she mutters, biting back a sardonic grin.

Ruvik is mere feet away, figure blocking much of the carnage, studying her with cool detachment. His manner reminds her of someone she had cared for long ago when she had happened upon him during one of his many studies of anatomy. With what seems to her to be cruelly deliberate leisure, he prowls closer, ceasing when they are close enough that, were she so inclined, she could rest her forehead against his chest with little effort. Charred fingers grip her chin tightly enough to injure, and he lifts her face until they are staring at one another. He turns her head first to one side and then the other, never losing his air of indifference, though she is certain that she hears a noise of some sort when he reveals the long, thin scar that runs along the side of her neck, a gift from a would-be mugger. Eventually he releases her, only to run his hand down her side until it encounters the opening to the pocket of her pants.

Realizing what he is going to do, Alice attempts to twist herself away. "Hold still," he commands coldly, free hand coming to rest on her hip, where it curls into a vice and inhibits her motion.

"Fuck you," she spits, fear crawling along her spine. She cannot lose it, will not lose it now, and certainly not to this sadistic, would-be god.

He ignores her ire, amusing as it is, and pulls from her pocket an elegant case; he finds that he is able to open it with one-handed ease, the latch showing the wear of many years of use, and feels his breath hitch in his throat, though it is unnoticed by her. Nestled inside is a dried ring of small daises, sized for a child's finger. A clear coat of some preservative holds the brittle strands together and keeps the thin petals attached to their stems. His thumb brushes over it, feeling the way it gives, but does not break, under the feather-light touch. Ruvik's expression remains carefully blank as he closes the case, a modified cigarette holder, and returns it to its place. Alice stills at this, confusion drawing her brows together, and unwanted nostalgia tugs at him when, instead of a crease, a small indent appears between them, the same as when they were children.

"You know who I am," he drawls.

"No, –"

(_Come look at this, Allie! See, it's –_)

"– I –"

(_– the part of the brain that –_)

"– don't."

(_– controls the pain and pleasure responses!_)

_Or maybe, _part of her hisses, _you don't want to_. There are too many undeniable similarities between this man and that boy, the same sharp features, the same lean build, though, where the boy had been gangly, the man is muscle, but she cannot bring herself to connect the two. How strange to have so tirelessly sought one thing, only to deny it now that it was in her grasp. The grip on her hip tightens, fingers digging almost cruelly into flesh and cloth. She expects him to let go – after all, he had the last time they had been so close – yet, to her surprise, he closes the small gap between them so that they are chest to chest. It forces her to crane her neck back to look at him, and she curses her height.

He leans down, and, for a moment, she thinks that Ruvik intends to kiss her. Instead, he presses his nose against the crown of her head, inhaling the diluted scent of her shampoo. Satisfied, he releases her and moves away, treading silently across broken glass and twisted metal, and the hands holding Alice disintegrate as ashes. He is aware of the way she watches him, wary now rather than angry, just as he is aware of her inner turmoil, the way she so vainly struggles to deny him his very existence. She will try to push him away, he knows, but he will not let her.

She belongs to _him_.

He will destroy that refusal of the truth. "You made a promise. Do you intend to break it?"

Alice feels the air leave her so brutally that it nearly winds her. Blood is pounding in her ears, her head, her heart hammering in her chest with so much force that she fears it will break her ribs. Speech is beyond her for now. Logically, she is aware that he could merely be toying with her. Everyone makes promises, so the statement could have been a vague attempt to garner a reaction. Illogically, she realizes what she does not want to, is faced with a fact she would rather destroy. When she finally does speak, it is one word, full of so many emotions that it catches in her throat, leaves a bitter tang on her tongue.

" . . . Ruben?"

* * *

Sebastian peers around the corner, tracking the progress of one of those . . . things as it shuffles from one end of the room to the other, snarling and snuffling like a rabid dog as it searches for its next victim. In one hand, he grips the knife that has saved his life many times. The other supports his weight as he leans against the doorframe in preparation to strike, full of the desperate knowledge that, should he fail, he will most likely be killed, as his ammo had run out on the bridge. As soon as the creature turns its back, he lunges, wrapping one arm around its throat to strangle its cry and using the other to drive the blade through its skull, metal crunching through bone and brain until it goes limp in his grasp.

He sets it on the ground, scowling as he does so. He is worried, though he loathes to admit it, for the members of his team, but particularly for Alice. Sebastian had watched her rise from the ranks, fighting tooth and nail until she became the youngest person to make detective in the history of the KCPD, watched as she shrugged off the bitterness of her colleagues (_Rising fast comes with a price, _she'd told him once, a wry grin twisting her lips, _especially for a woman_), watched her solve cases and find clues that he and Joseph had overlooked. She'd stood by him after Lily's death and Myra's disappearance, offering him support when he wanted it and solitude when he didn't. She'd always been his responsibility – still was, he supposed – though mutual respect had tempered that obligation.

Now she is missing and so is Joseph, and he has no idea how to look for them or where to start. It's almost painful to him to turn and not see them there, or to not hear one of her smart-ass remarks (God, how many times had she gotten in trouble with the Captain for mouthing off?) or Joseph's dry facts when he needed to. He'll never admit it, not under any sort of duress, but the two of them are all the family he's got now, with Lily and Myra gone, and he is determined to find them, no matter what the cost may be. Without any conscious thought, his hand raises to tug the knot on his tie, a gift from Alice for Christmas last year. He remembers asking why she'd gotten him something like that and hearing her laugh and tell him it was because he'd actually wear the damn thing.

From somewhere nearby, another abomination howls. Sebastian sets his jaw and stalks out of the door, swearing that he will not let them down again.

* * *

_Oh, fuck me!_

Ruvik – Ruben? – had disappeared after her inquiry, conveniently forgetting to answer, and leaving her in a state of turmoil she hadn't experienced since the death of her family. Hoping to clear her head, and, perhaps, to get a better grasp of what was going on, Alice had decided to continue to explore the run-down doppelgänger of the orphanage, and had managed to find a good deal of supplies hidden around, enough that she had been forced to leave some behind for fear of weighing herself down. Remarkably, the jars she had discovered, filled with a thicker form of the green liquid in the syringes, disappeared when touched. Where they went, she had no clue, but somehow she was certain that she'd find them again.

Once she had exhausted her options, she had stepped outside, only to find herself in a place that she had hoped to never see again, and one that the orphanage certainly did not belong in. One that also, as luck would have it, was crawling with creatures that looked like horribly diseased people, albeit with eyes like pinpricks of light. After mapping out a promising path, she had set out, only to be seen by a sniper she wasn't aware of. The gunshot not only nearly killed her, but also attracted every one of those things in the area, leaving her with no option but to fight.

And now her gun is empty.

Alice swears, ducking under the flailing arms of a man wrapped in barbed wire, and scans the ground desperately for anything she can use as a weapon. Her knife could work, but its reach is severely limited, and some of these things are carrying sickles and torches. She knows that some of them were carrying bullets, but she can't remember where they fell, and the walls of the horde are closing in around her. Finally, she spots a box of ammunition with a wolf on the packaging; dodging a wild swing of a clawed hand, she sprints towards it, exhilaration filling her when she realizes how many bullets are there – enough to take out these monsters, with some left over just in case.

She finds temporary sanctuary behind the looming statue of an angel, refilling her clip as quickly as she can, only to empty it seconds later to destroy the rest of the mob. The distance between them and her and a lifetime of learning to be still earns her several fatal head shots, and the others are disposed of with the torches that are dropped. The sniper is the last to go; Alice waits patiently for the moonlight to glint off of the scope, and then fires in that direction. She's rewarded with the disgusting sound of a head exploding, followed by a muffled '_thump_' as its body hits the ground.

Weary and bone-tired, she straightens, wincing as her spine lets out a series of protesting '_crack_'s due to how long she had been hunched over, and glances around, taking in a sight from years ago. The town square is, for the most part, unchanged, though the statue shows the results of neglect – the once pristine marble is chipped and a dirty grey – with the small flea market extended around the outermost edges. Lean-tos offer scant cover to tables and faded wares, and, even from where she stands, she can see the display Laura had favored, a shop run by a wizened woman the color of mocha who hawked jewelry of all kinds. It was there that the eldest Victoriano sibling had purchased a sunflower brooch and gifted it to Alice; it had burned years later along with the rest of her belongings.

She moves through the stalls, boots crunching quietly against gravel and dirt, hunting for bullets and other supplies she knows she will need. Some of the boxes scattered around contain a few odds and ends. Alice is digging through a pile of rubbish when a red light, blinking steadily a few feet away, catches her attention. Investigating reveals another audio player with a file next to it, as well as a small, black journal that she recognizes as her own from her first years as a detective. It takes her a moment to decide which to give attention to first; curiosity (and, though she will not say it, a desire to hear _his_ rough baritone again) dictates that the audio file take precedent. A slender finger presses against the '_play_' button, lingering even after the spools have begun to spin.

"_Father was a stern man."_ Alice starts, hair prickling uncomfortably at the mention of Ernesto Victoriano. _"Proud, and, I thought, intelligent. But he was also pious. A believer. Somehow, he always supported the church, no matter what the newspapers said. He waved away the allegations as if they were infallible. The wretched, the vermin, the stern . . . all were taken in by that church. They were promised salvation and eternal life. But there's nothing they could promise that _I _couldn't take away."_

A memory tugs at her, a gaunt man with ashen hair and eyes towering over two children, rage warping his voice into something vile and destructive. A scolding, yes, she and Ruben had been on the receiving end of those many times throughout the years, whether due to their disinterest in Cedar Hill Church or how often they were alone without supervision from their peers. The most vivid in her mind was the result of a misunderstanding, and had resulted in her being banned from the estate from several weeks. She and Ruben had been arguing over . . . What? A book? Something about anatomy, she was sure, when the boy had pushed her; she had fallen against his wardrobe, and a loose screw had torn through the fabric of her dress. Ruben had offered some of his clothing to make amends, and she had been in the process of changing when Ernesto had entered with her mother. His accusations had been cruel enough that her mother, never one to lose her temper, had given him a verbal lashing before removing Alice from the scene.

Finally, she lifts the leather journal, hearing the familiar creak of the binding as she opens it. Only one entry is present, and she knows she should be surprised, but so little in this world makes sense that she has long since stopped questioning it. The entry is dated December 3, 2007, the day after she had been introduced to Sebastian and Joseph.

_Fresh meat. That's what they called the rookies when we joined the force, fresh from the Academy and full of ideological zeal. They call me other things, now. 23, and I've been made a Junior Detective. The rest of my class is still working the beat, most in Vice, and envy is all I get from my once friendly colleagues. They are cold, cruel, but I have dealt with worse._

_My partners . . . Where to begin with them? Sebastian Castellanos has a reputation as a devil-may-care rule-bender who will do whatever it takes to solve a case. He's kind, if not a little gruff, and, despite his good-natured grouching about having to train me, he's gone out of his way to make my transition easy. Joseph Oda is his complete opposite, as far as work goes. Completely by-the-book. He was incredibly pleased to have me join them, or so he claimed, and helped me moved my meager possessions to my new desk._

_I had the honor of also meeting Myra Castellanos, Sebastian's wife and former partner, and his daughter, Lily, when the latter visited the two of them with her nanny. The girl is adorable, and oddly articulate for one who is not yet two. I hardly heard a cry from her, and that was only when she had to leave. Myra is strange. No-nonsense, with a tough attitude, but something about her doesn't quite seem to connect with the person she claims to be. Maybe it's the way she looks at Lily, as though she knows something about her daughter's future, or how strained she can be when dealing with the man she's supposed to love. _

_Perhaps I'm letting her reaction to me cloud my judgement. When Joseph introduced me – Sebastian was too preoccupied smothering his baby girl with affection – she stared at me as though seeing a ghost. I tried to remember if I've ever met her before, but I'm certain that I haven't, which leaves me even more puzzled about it. After the initial tension, she was nothing but kind, even offering to "put Sebastian in his place" should I need it . . . _

Alice reads the entry again and again, as though to engrave the words upon her mind. It is a reminder of a better time, a better place, and the picture tucked into the cover only cements its place as a fond memory: Sebastian stands between herself and Joseph — Joseph, with his ever-present notebook in his hand, reciting a fact pertaining to whatever case they had been on — lit cigarette dangling from his lips as he offers one to her, both of them listening attentively to Joseph. Her fingers graze the image, and, for an absurd moment, she is forced to fight back the tears that threaten to choke her. _Where are they?_


	5. Chapter 5 - Those That Reflect

**[A/N]:** Before we begin, I'd like to offer my sincerest apologies to everyone who has reviewed, favorited, and/or followed this tale. Shortly after the third chapter was released, I was forced to drop out of college and move to a new location without internet access; after I regained it, I simply had no motivation to write. At first, I attributed it to how hard I was working to get myself into a new school, but, to be honest, my depression was horrible enough that getting out of bed was a struggled. _Wires_ is once again on its once-a-week updating schedule, although, as a sign of my remorse, two chapters (including _Those That Scar_, which was published shortly ago) will be released this week. Thank you, all of you, so very much for your continued support.

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing related to _The Evil Within_, nor do I own the lyrics to any songs that might appear. The name Alice Liddell and her family belong originally to Lewis Carroll, with her appearance drawing heavily from _American McGee's Alice: Madness Returns_. This is a nonprofit work.

* * *

"_You were as sharp as the knife to get me.  
You were a wolf in the night to fetch me back.  
The wishes I've made are too vicious to tell,  
and everyone knows that I'm going to hell . . .  
But if that's true, I'll go there with you."_  
— "The Wolf," Phildel

Ruvik studies her blankly from his perch, dimly aware of the breeze that sends dead leaves scampering across the roofs and twists his cloak around his legs. It is the first time since her arrival that he has seen her look truly vulnerable, and, though he knows of her working relationship with her partners, to see her in such a state over _them_ brings that coiling heat to his gut once again. He has not delved deeply into any matters of her past that do not pertain to him or her family, but now, he decides, is time that the last of her soul is laid bare before him. He closes his eyes, and it is no long before the scent of polish and cigarette smoke assault his senses, mixed with . . .

_Cologne, that's what it is, some cheap cologne that can be bought at any drugstore in the country. The rookie to her left has bathed himself in it, maybe to hide the scent of his nervous sweat, but the stench is only made worse because the cologne is so sickly, and she doubts he's put on any sort of deodorant with the way his pits and back are stained. She looks at him disdainfully from the corner of her eye, aware of some of her other classmates doing the same, and hears someone whisper something from the back that makes his neighbor stifle a laugh. The '_bang_' of the door slamming against the wall draws her attention front and center, where a squat man with a mean face stands, scowling at each and every one of them as if they've done something to offend him. Behind him are several others from the force, either detectives or beat cops, and she realizes that this is truly the end of her Academy days, that now her goal is so close she can almost taste it. Her mouth goes dry and her vision seems to clear and focus, colors becoming more vibrant ("The old witchy-vision," Sebastian will call it later, because it always seems to him that, when it happens, she gains an uncanny insight into whatever has her attention), and she knows in that way that happens sometimes that the bored, irritated man in the back and his new partner will be her team one day. But, for now, a paunchy, balding man steps forward to welcome her as kindly as he can, and then the ritual hazing begins._

_Detective Castellanos and Detective Oda are staring at the Captain in surprise, her standing proudly behind him with her Junior Detective badge fastened to her belt, and it isn't long before Oda is coming forward to greet her warmly, Castellanos following suit a moment later, though his greeting is rough and his gaze critical. Oda offers to take the box from her arms and she lets him, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear once her hands are free and watching as he sets it on the only available desk in the cramped office, moving the stacks of Missing Persons posters out of the way. She has been here only minutes, but already it feels like home, and when Castellanos offers her a cigarette, expecting her to decline prissily, she takes it and lights it, blowing smoke towards the ceiling in a futile attempt to create rings. Oda says something that she doesn't catch, too preoccupied with studying her new environment, and Castellanos grunts agreeably, and then Oda is asking her if she wants to accompany them to lunch or stay in the office and have them bring something back. Unpacking can wait. She agrees to go._

"_Liddell!" Sebastian's voice booms nearby and then he slams into her, tackling her to the ground as a bullet whizzes through the air where she had been mere seconds before. She curses under her breath and hears Sebastian do the same as he cranes his head above the crate, only to drop it as another bullet cracks into the plaster behind them. This was supposed to be simple, find the father who kidnapped his daughter, but the father was convinced they were going to kill them both and had opened fire in the middle of negotiations. There is a bullet in her side, near her hip, but the adrenaline flooding her system almost completely negates the pain. Sebastian's face is inches away from her, the weight of his body pressing hers against the cool ground, legs tangled together from their fall, and she can smell the pricey cologne he wears and the faintest hint of whiskey and smoke on his breath, can see every detail of his face, and the crazy urge to pull him closer and kiss him — if she's going to die, by God, she's going to act on an urge that's been bothering her since they met —rears up, but it dies when a single gunshot rings out, followed by Joseph's call of, "Clear!"_

_Her voice dies in her throat. She'd returned to the office after leaving to retrieve the file that she'd almost worn apart, and there was Sebastian, slumped behind his desk with his head in his hands and a half-empty bottle of booze on the desk in front of him next to a picture of Myra and Lily, and she's suddenly self-conscious and uncertain. Should she knock? Leave? Before she can decide, Sebastian is raising her head to glare at her, though its effect is dampened by the sorrow in his eyes, and she finds herself crossing the small space before she has even decided to, all thoughts of the file replaced by vague notions of comforting her mentor-turned-partner-turned-friend; he slams his hand down on his desk, halting her movements, and stalks around it until his chest is touching hers and he's scowling down at her, and, this close, she can _taste_ the booze on his breath. She opens her mouth to speak, and is silenced by the feel of his lips crushing hers, desperation oozing from his every pore, and he's forcing her backwards until she is pinned between him and the wall. She does not respond, causing him to pull away, and she has grabbed her file and fled the office before he can say whatever is on his mind._

_If Joseph noticed the tension, he didn't remark on it, but an obvious sigh of relief passes his lips the first time she and Sebastian have a normal conversation again. Neither of them have brought up that night weeks ago, neither of them feel the need to, and neither of them have voiced the thought that maybe they ought to give it a try. She is haunted by a promise she made to a dead boy, a promise that has dictated her every move whether she knows it or not, and he is full of remorse and fear that the past will repeat itself and he will watch as he loses everything all over again. But there is no denying the pleasant anxiety that occurs when their fingers graze on the pack of cigarettes he is handing her, no hiding the way they each shy away from the other so quickly that she slams into the wall behind her desk and his chair rocks precariously on two legs._

_She is in the hospital again. Her back is on fire, charred flesh crossing already healed scars, and the doctor is refusing to allow her more morphine because he needs an accurate measurement of her pain. She can hear Sebastian and Joseph arguing outside about what needs to be done. Joseph is adamant: this must be brought up to Internal Affairs. People don't just rush into a burning building with no protective measures on a whim, especially after the firefighters have already rescued everyone in the building. Sebastian is equally stubborn in his rhetoric: the firefighters were wrong and missed the boy, unconscious from smoke inhalation, in an upstairs closet, a boy that her actions had saved, a boy currently residing in the I.C.U. with doctors saying he'd make a full recovery. Her ability to eavesdrop is hindered when the doctor enters the room, smiling reassuringly as he checks her vitals and drips and asks her questions, allowing small breaks when her voice cracks. She is lucky, he says, to be alive._

_The Captain is frighteningly calm. Sebastian stands next to her, his mutinous expression a perfect reflection of what she's feeling but refusing to show, hands shoved into his pockets while her arms are crossed across her chest. There is talk of paid leave and counseling, and every now and then the Captain glances between the I.A. official and Joseph, who fidgets nervously next to his desk. Finally, it is decided that they will temporarily removed from duty, though they will retain their pay and benefits, until the I.A. investigation and their mandatory sessions with a therapist are completed. Sebastian turns to leave and she follows, steadily ignoring Joseph's attempts to talk to them, to apologize for doing what he felt was right. It is not until she's back in her meager apartment that she thinks that he may have been right._

"_Are you in love with him?" The question snaps her from her reverie, and she stares at her counselor, a pretty African-American woman with her hair in sleek cornrows dressed in a gray dress with geometric designs in red. She cannot remember her name, though she sees it every time she walks into the office, but the woman is smiling kindly and it is obvious that the question is merely asked from obligation. When she doesn't respond, her counselor says, "Sebastian Castellanos. One of your partners." She thinks about it, thinks about the way he makes her feel, safe and warm, and then she thinks about how she's felt before, about the boy and the ring of flowers and days spent under the sun or in the library, about the pain of loss and how hollow she has felt since then. "No," she says, "but I feel like I should be."_

_There is blood on her hands and the ground below, mingling with the cold December rain. Joseph's blood. She can hear Sebastian yelling for a medic somewhere nearby, but her attention is riveted on the man beneath her who is gasping, whether in pain or because he is dying she can't tell. He'd reported her for reckless behavior, but he was the one who had rushed into a building without the all clear, only to be met with a bullet to the chest (thank God for the bullet-proof vests they had to wear), and, when he had staggered, another had embedded itself in his shoulder, shattering his collarbone in the process. "Hey!" His gaze flickers weakly to her, and she smacks his cheek lightly to try and keep him awake, her free hand pressing the makeshift tourniquet made from her coat against the wound. "You keep your eyes on me, Oda, do you hear me?" It is a struggle to keep the panic from her voice, and she is relieved when he nods shakily, gloved hand reaching up and over in an attempt to grab hers. She laces their fingers together and finds that she cannot stop talking now that she has started. "I was pissed at you. I couldn't figure out why you had to file that report, but now I know why, and I want you to know that it's okay. You saved my ass, now let me save yours." He makes a noise that might have been an attempt at a chuckle, and then the medics are there and she nearly collapses when they say that he'll be fine._

"_Alice." Sebastian is standing by his desk, nervous and twitchy, and she knows why he's there and decides that it's time for their nervous dance to end. "Do you want to have sex with me?" she asks, and sees him stiffen, words stuttering to a halt. "I wanted to have sex you, I won't lie, but I like how we work together and I like having you as my friend, and I don't want to change that." He relaxes, letting out a long exhale, and offers her a crooked grin. "I was going to ask if you wanted to grab lunch and head to the hospital to see Joseph." _Liar_, she thinks, but she returns his grin with one of her own, standing and slinging her coat on as she heads towards the door. "Might as well. That hospital food is deadly."_

* * *

Alice shakes her head slowly, lifting her gaze to scan her surroundings for potential threats. Now is not the time for nostalgia, not when she has to find her partners — her _family_ — so they can figure out how to escape from this place. The past clings to her mind like cobwebs and, for a moment, she can smell the ever-comforting scents of Sebastian and Joseph, smoke and ink and cologne, can almost swear that they are standing just behind her and, if she turns, she will see them. But she knows that they aren't, so she slips her journal into her back pocket and continues her exploration of the market. There is little else of value, though she does find an empty case that looks as though it held a crossbow of some sort, and she decides to move on. If she remembers correctly, the Church is on the other side of the market, beyond the cemetery, but she is reluctant to set foot in that place. Feelings aside, it is the only way to go; she squares her shoulders, takes a deep breath, and sets off.

Inside the cemetery, near the horse statue that she and Ruben would sit near and read after services let out while their families were still inside socializing, she finds a large bottle of the green gel. A loud howling from nearby causes the hairs on the back of her neck to stand on end; she pauses, hand outstretched and head cocked to listen, and is rewarded when she hears an incredibly familiar voice let out a slew of curses accompanied by the sound of rocks breaking and a gun firing. Returning the way she came, she finds Sebastian on the ground and Joseph on top of the walls and starts to call out, only for her voice to catch in her throat when she sees what they're firing at.

A giant lumbers around the corner, swinging the club in his hand wildly in an attempt to crush Sebastian, who is backing away as he fires. She is so caught up in debating what she should do — climb and provide cover from above or charge in? — that she does not notice the second creature until it is charging at her. Quick thinking is all that saves her; she hurls herself behind a nearby outcrop as it slams into the wall in front of her. While it is stunned, she fires, vaguely aware of Joseph shouting her name and Sebastian trying to simultaneously evade his own monster and make his way to her. Her clip is empty by the time it recovers, and she is forced to sprint to the next piece of possible cover she sees, an alcove, while reloading. The giant thunders towards her, and she makes it with a millisecond to spare. Alice again opens fire, swearing loudly as her gun clicks and she realizes she is out of ammunition. Luckily, Sebastian and Joseph have brought the other one down, but neither of them are aware of how quickly this new one moves. She sees it stand and turn, and watches in horror as it dashes towards Sebastian as he reloads his gun.

She is moving before she is aware of it, hand gripping her knife and sliding it out of its sheath, taking the path that leads her up a ramp of debris until she leaps at the giant's back. The impact, however slight, is enough to cause the creature to stumble to a halt, grotesquely long arms reaching back in an attempt to swat her off. A glancing blow to her side is all it takes to crush her ribs; there is blood in her mouth and she cannot breathe, but she still forces herself to climb until she is sitting on its shoulders, where she plunges the knife into its skull with enough force that the blade breaks off. The giant staggers, groans, and collapses, and falling backwards is the only thing that stops her from being smothered beneath its corpse. There is a lot of shouting, and then Sebastian is in her line of sight, saying words she cannot hear. Then Joseph is next to him, and the panic on his face is all she needs to know how serious her injury truly is. His hand reaches out to touch her side, snapping back, red and dripping, when she cries out. When the blackness begins to swallow her vision, she falls into it willingly.

* * *

Ruvik had needed time to process what he had learned. That was what he had thought to convince himself that his disappearance was not a furious retreat, that the pang in his chest was not tied to any emotional cause, but rather a pain that he had become accustomed to long ago when that fire had scorched his flesh. To learn that, at one point, the woman that was _his_ had harbored some sort of romantic notion towards another filled him with a cold anger, the fact that she had never acted on it out of grief for him be damned. The kiss had sealed the fate of Castellanos; Ruvik would use him to accomplish his goal, and then he would destroy him. He is pulled from his ruminations by the sounds of Zenn and Neun in the distance, and he knows that they are busy dealing with two of the many thorns in his side. Yet he feels something he has not felt in a long time, a type of dread, when _she _enters the equation, and that dread turns to something perilously close to fear when he feels her begin to flicker right after Neun's demise.

When he appears in the cemetery, he feels that rage nearly consume him. Alice is unconscious, dying, her side a mess of blood and tissue and bone, while those fools hover over her, so blinded by panic that they have forgotten about the syringes they carry that would save her life. He tosses them aside effortlessly as he moves closer, and kneels to lift her in his arms. While being so close to her before had caused him discomfort as her body heat irritated his scars, she is now so cold that his wounds are almost soothed. The faint, spicy scents of her perfume and shampoo are buried beneath the coppery tang of her blood, and he ignores the angry threats hurled at him by Castellanos and Oda, curling himself over her limp form and focusing on mending the torn flesh. The mind is a strange thing, particularly in this world, when enough focus can cause reality to warp. If he can convince her that she is not dying, that she is, in fact, fine . . . Gradually her bones begin to realign, skin and muscles knitting over them and her shredded lung healing, and he feels relief flood over him, though he does his best to conceal it.

He focuses he gaze on the two men, and there is nothing friendly in Ruvik's stare. "She is under _my_ care now," he says, voice cold and forceful, "and she will _stay_ that way."

Uncaring of their fear and rage, he turns, stepping from the cemetery into the room that had once been his, setting her on the bed after ensuring that there is no one else in the mansion. He glances at her one last time — he is only checking to ensure that she is fully healed, surely, not reassuring himself that she is alive — before leaving the room, wandering idly through the halls until he finds himself in the piano room, the titular instrument resting nearby catching his attention. Without truly meaning to, he settles on the bench and begins to play _Clair de Lune_.

* * *

"_YOU DID THIS TO US!"_

Alice jerks up, breath wheezing through her lips as she gazes wildly around the room, looking fearfully for the red entity from her dream. When it doesn't present itself, she lowers herself back to the mattress, slinging an arm over her eyes. She had always wondered what, exactly, had happened the day that her world had begun to fall apart, and now . . . Tears streak her cheeks as she remembers the barn where they had all played so many times, hide-and-go-seek or tag or pretend, leaping from hay bale to hay bale, re-enacting scenes from Shakespeare's plays on the elevator and the loft, acquired in one of the many business deals of Ernesto Victoriano. To see the villagers so coldly disregard the sound of children playing inside, Laura's panic as she realized what was happening, Ruben's pain as he burned and fell with a horrifying sound from the window, Laura's death as she burned . . . Her fingers curled into a fist.

But now that the floodgates had been opened, there was no stopping other memories from surfacing. Her mother's worried remark (_"Your father has doomed us to burn with his ridiculous obsession with paper."_), her father's teasing reply (_"My dear, there is no harm in having a library so long as you keep your insufferable candles away from it_."), the terror as she awoke from her sleep to find her door locked and smoke filling her room, the blind way she had fumbled the window open and tumbled through, her fall broken only by the pile of straw her father planned to use to make a scarecrow, her parents' cries as they tried to wake Lizzie, Lizzie who only locked her door when she was planning to creep out at night, Lizzie who had been dead long before the fire started, shot by a robber who she had startled in the night, Lizzie who had been her closest friend and trusted confidante, dead and burning while their parents suffocated outside, only to be consumed by the fire while they were alive, unable to wake up and save themselves.

The tears are coming fully now, sobs choking her and wracking her frame, and Alice curls onto her side, arms up as though to protect her face from an impending blow. Her side is sore but intact, something she should marvel at but cannot, and she does not hear the door opening or the quiet footfalls approaching her, does not notice the man standing over her until he is sitting next to her, fingers threading hesitantly through her hair. She startles, rolls over to see Ruvik staring at her, expression indecipherable, and she, without thinking, reaches for him, burying her face in the white fabric of his cloak to muffle her tears. "Ruben, Ruben," she hiccups, and his fingers return to her hair, stroking it in that soothing way from when they were children. It was not, is not, often that she cried, but he had always known what to do to ease her on the rare occasion that she gave in.

Gradually, her sobs subside, and she sits up, wiping furiously at her eyes to remove any traces of tears. Ruvik makes no move other than to rest his hand on the mattress, and she is aware of the way his gaze is trained on her face. They sit that way for some time, comfortable in the silence as they always were — there had never been much need for conversation between the two of them, although they could hold one easily back then — Alice with her head turned to face the window, expression guarding, and Ruvik watching her, all traces of earlier hostility replaced by a calmness that she knows he uses to mask whatever emotions he wishes to keep to himself. When she does decide to speak, she does so without censoring herself, so tired that she does not care if he chooses to kill her for doing so or not.

"I never knew." Her voice is rough, quiet, and she clears her throat. "The details, I mean. My parents told me only what they thought I needed to know. There had been an accident here, and you and Laura had died." He stiffens next to her at the mention of his sister, and she recalls Lizzie telling their mother that he was in love with Laura, and their mother denying it. "I didn't know there was a fire until Lizzie snuck into my room that night to tell me, and we cried together for what felt like ages. Your family buried the two of you without telling anyone else, and we weren't allowed to visit your graves.

A year or two later, a would-be thief murdered Lizzie when she saw him and set our house ablaze. The responders said that it had originated in the library, that he must have thrown a lamp near one of the shelves. I made it out, but no one else did, and I spent the next few years in a foster home. I don't know when I did, but I decided to join the K.C.P.D. to find out the truth about my family . . . and you. But everywhere I looked, I ran into walls and red tape, and I kept going over the evidence and the files until I could recite them in my sleep. _I never stopped looking_, but I guess I never looked hard enough.

And now . . ." Alice pauses, feels a bitter laugh bubbling in her chest. "Now I know. Your father and his business deals, of course he was bound to piss someone off, but those villagers? They knew you were there, one of them even said that he _heard _you, and they went ahead and burned the barn anyway. And Laura . . ." Here, she feels her voice begin to die as the tears threaten again. "Laura saved you, like she always did. I'm so sorry, Ruben. I'm so, so sorry."

Throughout her speech, he had remained still. Now, he grabs her shoulders roughly and slams her against the mattress, hands moving to grip her wrists tightly enough that the bones grind as he straddles her thighs. His face twitches with each new emotion that wracks him, rage and regret and sorrow and hatred moving fluidly over his features, and to see him so exposed after experiencing nothing but his arrogance and cruelty is so surprising that she finds that she cannot speak. He lowers his head to hers, lips curling from his teeth in the barest of snarls as he speaks. "You will _never_ be sorry enough."

And then he kisses her.


	6. Chapter 6 - Those That Bind

**A/N:** I owe all of you the most sincere of apologies. I know that I continue to disregard the updating schedule, and I know that I continue to make excuses for it, and I know that I continue to disappoint, and I'm so terribly _sorry_. I tried to rationalize it with a lack of motivation, and then with school, but, the truth is, sometimes it's simply _hard_ for me to write; some other series will catch my attention and I lose the inspiration for whatever I'm currently working on, and I don't want to give you mediocre chapters. Again, I'm so, so sorry.

**Warning: **Some explicit content in this chapter. Bloodplay is briefly hinted to, sexual themes are rampant, and this is non-consensual, no matter how you read it.

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing related to _The Evil Within_, nor do I own the lyrics to any songs that might appear. The name Alice Liddell and her family belong originally to Lewis Carroll, with her appearance drawing heavily from _American McGee's Alice: Madness Returns_. This is a nonprofit work.

* * *

"_It's not worth it; it's not working. You wanted it to be picture perfect.  
It's not over. You don't have to throw it away.  
So, scream if you want to, shout if you need, just let it go. Take it out on me.  
Fight if you need to, smash if it helps you get control. Take it out on me."  
_— "Take It Out On Me," Thousand Foot Krutch

Alice jerks away, wrists twitching within his grasp as his teeth meet her lip. The kiss is brutal, vengeful, wrathful; when she cranes her neck to get away, he sneers, and his grip on tightens until the bones creak. She knows that there will be bruises shaped perfectly like his fingers on her skin, finds that she does not care so long as the bones are not broken. He trails his affection across her jaw and down her throat, leaving livid marks in his wait, blood pooling in the junction of her neck and shoulder when he bites particularly hard, though most of it is lazily lapped up, a rumble that might have been amused echoing from him. This is possessive, she realizes, territorial. Still, part of her relishes in his twisted display of affection, though she knows she should be repulsed. Ruvik pulls away to peer at her, eyes cold beneath lids half-lowered.

She does not know where it comes from, but he transfers her wrists to a one-handed grip and produces a lobotomy needle from behind his back. The metal is cool as he runs it against the flesh of her face, her neck, halting it when the point, lethally sharp, presses against the hollow of her throat, a point of blood bubbling at the barest pressure. This is regarded with mild interest, and breath hisses between her lips when he leans down to taste it. Alice feels his lips twist against her skin — is he _smiling_? — and it only fuels the contradictory emotions, disgust and desire warring, an inferno in her veins. At his whim, barbed wire coils around her arms, freeing his other hand so that it can drift to the hem of the tattered tank top she wears. There is the briefest pause, laden with uncharacteristic hesitation, and then he withdraws.

She does not turn her head to follow his movements, and is dully surprised when he returns, holding a pair of Metzenbaum scissors. They make quick work of her shirt; Ruvik does not touch the fabric, instead allowing it to part and fall on its own, watching as it creases haphazardly beneath her form. Alice meets his gaze, where she finds nothing but clinical interest, as though she is nothing but another cadaver for him to dissect. They remain that way, her as still as she can be to avoid injury from the wire and him alternating between watching her chest rise and fall with each breath and scrutinizing other aspects, for what feels like an eternity. Finally, when she feels that she might scream, he turns from her once again, and the fear begins to bubble when she sees him select a scalpel from the instruments on the desk.

"Do you know how often I thought of this?" Ruvik asks, but she knows he is talking to himself, as though there is a recorder nearby. "To see you helpless, stripped of your pride and your strength, powerless to resist." He settles next to her, and her breath hitches when his fingers, scared and so horribly cold, press against her stomach. "I imagined it frequently, before the fire, but knew I could not speak of it. Father would have banned you from our home, and that I could not allow to happen."

It takes a moment for Alice to realize that he is not quite speaking of using her for examination, but something else, something that, at the time, she would have been too young to truly understand, and that fear becomes palpable, though she does her best to conceal it. Ruvik traces a scar that stretches from her hip to her navel before his touch travels to graze against the underside of her bra. The movement of the scalpel is swift, fabric parting in the middle, and a small cut is left between her breasts, so quick that it is painless. He studies her breasts, hand shifting to cup one, and she tries to shift away.

Ruvik's gaze snaps to her face. "Do I repulse you?" When she refuses to answer, his mouth sets in a cruel line, reminiscent of Ernesto Victoriano. "I wonder if you would remain so obstinate if it were your precious detective here in my stead." He seems to consider this, and then the thought is discarded. "No matter. It is as I told you before. You are _mine_ to do with as I please."

Alice starts —

"_What are you doing?!" Ernesto's voice is enraged, veins a furious purple where they pulse at his throat and temples, and Alice scrambles to hide away in the wardrobe. _It's not what you think_, she wants to cry, but knows that he will not believe you. She and Ruben had spent the morning exploring the sunflower field, and both had returned muddy and soaked; Ruben had offered her some of his clothes, and she had not thought twice about shrugging out of her sodden dress to slide the white shirt over her head. The fact that Ruben was present hadn't bothered her. He'd seen her nude before, when they had been younger and forced to huddle together to fight off a particularly nasty chill, but Ernesto had seen something she had not, something predatory in his son's eyes . . ._

— tries to twist —

"_He's got a touch like a lizard. Repulsive," Lizzie says, and it takes Alice a moment to understand that they are talking about one of her suitors, a greasy man who fades into the background at parties but shadows Lizzie's every move. Her sister, busy braiding the front sections of her hair out of her face so that Alice will not be blinded should they play later, pauses, strands of hair wrapped delicately around her fingers, and her question is so unexpected that it leaves Alice speechless. "Does he ever touch you? Ruben, I mean." "We touch all of the time," Alice says at last, and feels her sister tense momentarily and then relax. "That isn't what I meant, Allie, but . . . Maybe you're too young."_

— to get away —

"_I don't like it," she overhears her mother saying one night. Ernesto had been over earlier, and Alice had been shooed away from the library so he could speak to her parents. "He's far too interested in her. She's just a child! And his son . . ." Her father's voice, warm yet impatient, cuts through his wife's worried babble. "They're only children, Elaine. It's natural for them to be curious, but Alice was adamant that he was only trying to give her something dry to wear." "Still . . ." Her mother's voice is doubtful, moving from side to side as she paces the length of the room. "Lizzie told me that he asked her to marry him. Even she's concerned about him. She's still young enough to be taken advantage of, and he's a growing boy."_

— only for Ruvik —

_She has begun to notice that Ruvik is always touching her when he can be. During sermons, while they play together or whittle away the hours in one of the family libraries, his touch is constant. The small of her back, an arm, her hand, her hair . . . his fingers seem to graze against her always, and sometimes it seems accidental, but then she'll catch him watching her, gauging her reaction, and know that it is intentional. Sometimes the touches seem like the ones that men use on Lizzie, but she is nowhere near as beautiful as her sister. She is thin (this will follow her all of her life, even after she has matured and developed, she will remain slender), pale, a waif in nice clothing. But she has no objection, and so does not complain, even when his fingers stray too close to the waist of her dresses._

— to straddle her, pinning her to the bed beneath his weight. His eyes are dark, predatory, as he stares down at her. She meets his gaze defiantly, chin tilted in that stubborn Liddell way, and his lips curl into a smirk that stops just short of being cruel. He leans down; knowing what he intends to do, she turns her head, but his hand curls around her chin and holds her in place. His lips press against hers with bruising force, but it is awkward, nearly clumsy without his fury. When she does not respond, his free hand drops to her breast and pinches her nipple cruelly; her lips part in a quiet cry, and he uses it to his advantage. While he dominates her with his kiss, he releases her chin, hand sliding back to tangle in her hair, tugging painfully on the silken strands.

Calloused fingers trail down her side, stroking along her ribs until they reach her pants. Ruvik traces the line of flesh and cloth, pausing when he reaches the snap of her pants. It is unhooked easily, and he dexterously lowers the zipper, humming appreciatively when his touch grazes across the black lace of her panties. Alice bucks her hips beneath him, attempting to throw him off, but she halts when he groans lowly, breaking away from the kiss to rest his head against her shoulder. The skin of his chest is rough, warm in some places and cold in others where it presses against hers, and, to her horror, she finds the sensation soothing instead of repulsive. Ruvik's hands dip to grasp her hips. He pulls them up against his own, rolling into the motion, body arching into and away from her. _He's never done this before,_ she thinks, startled by the accuracy of it.

She expects him to continue, to finish what he has started, but he stops, lifting his head to gaze at the door, something dark and hostile warping his features. After a moment, she becomes aware of the sounds of movement below, and hears Sebastian calling her name. Ruvik stands, glancing at her with disinterest, as though he hadn't been so close to her a minute before. The wire around her wrists retracts, but, before she can even attempt to cross the room, he is gone, the door closing and locking securely behind him. Alice stares at it, frowns, and decides to explore the room while she has the chance. The door and windows can't be the only exits, she reasons, and she needs to find something to cover herself with.

A cursory glance inside of the wardrobe reveals several white button-down shirts. She grabs on and shrugs it on. It is long on her, but tight, and she is forced to roll up the sleeves to free her hands. The sounds of destruction continue to get closer; when the door to the next room is kicked open, she jumps up and pounds on the wall, hoping that Sebastian is on the other side, not one of those creatures roaming around. There is a moment of silence, and, then, a muffled voice rings through the wood and plaster.

"Alice?"

"Sebastian," she breathes, and then raises her voice to make herself known. "Can you open the door to this room? I'm locked in, and I can't find a key."

"Hang on," he replies. She listens as he forages in the other room and then exits. A moment later, there is a loud, splintering noise as he kicks the door. Once. Twice. The third hit knocks it off of its hinges to reveal Sebastian, ruffled and bruised and bloody, a crossbow strapped to his back and a lantern to his belt, and, suddenly, she wants to cry. It is foolish, inane, but the tears build and fall against her will, startling the older detective. When he approaches her, it is hesitant, but his arms wrap around her easily enough when she clings to him, and his hand raises to cradle the back of her head, pressing her face against his shoulder.

"Sorry," she mumbles, pulling away. When she goes to wipe her face, Sebastian's hand on her arm stops her. Alice looks at him curiously, mouth open to ask him what's going on, when she realizes that he is looking at the marks on her wrist. His gaze travels to the small wound above her clavicle to the numerous bruises and bite marks on her neck, and his mouth sets in a grim line. Contrary to popular belief, he is not a fool, and recognizes the signs of sexual assault when he sees them. "It's not as bad as it looks," she says blandly. "They don't hurt anymore."

Sebastian merely sighs in response, pulling a roll of gauze from his pockets. She watches as he binds her wrists and neck carefully, fingers gentle when he has to touch one of the wounds. When he has finished, he raises one of her hands and presses a soft kiss against the bandages, eyes never leaving hers, and she feels her throat close with an emotion she does not want to think about or feel at the moment. Sebastian tugs her closer, arm curling protectively — possessively? — around her waist, head tilted down to hers. His lips are warm, chapped when they graze hers. Alice is tempted to respond, head lilting to one side, when she is aware of the colors of the room fading to a blue hue. Her eyes shift to peer over Sebastian's shoulder, and her heart drops when she sees him standing in the doorway, blocking their only exit.

Ruvik.


	7. Chapter 7 - Those That Strangle

**A/N:** A very, very large shout-out to RedVoid for putting up with my consistent rambling and offering advice, and to iznihs for all of their kind reviews!

**Warning: **Violence, gore, spoilers for important parts of the game's story. Personal loss, grief, and guilt are also explored.

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing related to _The Evil Within_, nor do I own the lyrics to any songs that might appear. The name Alice Liddell and her family belong originally to Lewis Carroll, with her appearance drawing heavily from _American McGee's Alice: Madness Returns_. This is a nonprofit work.

* * *

"_I see a bad moon rising. I see trouble on the way.  
I see earthquakes and lightning. I see bad times today.  
Don't go around tonight. Well, it's bound to take your life.  
There's a bad moon on the rise."  
_— "Bad Moon Rising," Mourning Ritual

It happens so quickly that there is no time to think. One moment he is in front of her, watching her eyes widen in fear, and, the next, she has shoved him with all of her might towards the wall; brittle and cracked with age, it gives way beneath his weight. As he stumbles through, Sebastian watches Alice duck beneath Ruvik's outstretched hand, nimble and barely avoiding a touch that, judging by the murderous intent on his face, would have been deadly. She bolts, slamming the door behind her, and Sebastian is quick to follow suit. He has encountered this phenomena before, knows that being caught when Ruvik is prowling about only ends in disaster. The two of them almost collide in the hallway, and then they dash into the next room, the library, down the stairs, and into the kitchen, where he hides in a cupboard and she ducks beneath the table. They make it with only seconds to spare — Ruvik is inhumanly fast, and he enters the room just as Alice curls up, tucking all of her limbs as close to her body as she can.

Ruvik pauses in the doorway, eyes scanning the room, searching, hunting. He knows that they are here, but, despite all of his power, he is weaker in this house than anywhere else, and cannot pinpoint their exact locations. He has decided that, plans or no, Castellanos is simply in his way. The girl belongs to him, just as the boy does, and time and time again he has come so close to his goals, only for that bumbling fool to interrupt him. As for Alice, well . . . There is more than one way to shatter her resolve. His footfalls are soft, padding quietly as he paces the length of the room, peering around the pantry door to see if they are lurking within. When that proves futile, he turns on his heel, stopping between the table and the cupboard. If he is silent, he should be able to hear their breathing, yet no unusual noises reach him. The Haunted shuffle about in the next room, the beams creak with rot, but there are no panicked huffs, no muffled sounds.

"Little mouse," he murmurs, an old endearment from his childhood. Hadn't Alice always been the best at hide-and-seek, continually besting him when they played? She could find him in an instant, yet, no matter how long and hard he searched, he could never discover the hiding places she balled up into. Once, after he had given up, she had appeared from a nook he would never have seen, tucked away as it was beneath the stairs, and he supposes that she has kept this skill through the years. "Come out, little mouse. My patience grows thin."

Beneath the distorted mahogany of the table, Alice's heart stutters as the familiar moniker passes his lips. _Little mouse_, she thinks, _just as it was. Lizzie started it, didn't she? And then Laura, sweet Laura, who turned it from a taunt to something sweet, a pet name of sorts. Ruben was last, and only started using it after my father found me "all curled up, like a mouse in a hole."_ Despite the sudden warmth in her chest, the urge to stand and tap him on the shoulder as she had always done, she remains still. This is no game, and the consequence of being caught is no longer childish teasing. She knows that he means to kill Sebastian. A shard of glass near her hand catches her eye. Alice studies it, watches the dim light reflect and glow, and makes up her mind.

The sliver bites deep into her hand when she grabs it; without truly thinking, spurred by years of honed instincts, she slides from under the table, stabbing downwards as she does, through his foot, through the floor. Her sudden appearance has startled him, and she takes advantage of this to sprint away, back towards the stairs. _Laura's room. He won't want to set foot in there, and he won't want to touch her things_. It's the last room on the left before the master bedroom she recalls, and ducks inside, surveying quickly for any places she can conceal herself. She spots a large crate of rotted linens. As speedily as she can, she lifts them out, careful not to unfold or wrinkle the fabric, and burrows into the chest, piling them back on top of herself.

Meanwhile, Ruvik stand and studies his foot with curious detachment. The wound doesn't hurt, and the glass dissolves at his whim. Still . . . she had attacked him. If she had come quietly, perhaps her punishment might not have been so severe, but now . . . _Run quickly, little mouse, _he muses, _and hide away, for when I find you, I will teach you the meaning of pain_.

* * *

Sebastian watches with bated breath, biting back curses as he waits for their tormentor to leave. _Stupid girl, _he thinks, but he is more worried than angry, and a familiar fear has begun to rear its ugly head. He has lost Myra and Lily, and that had almost destroyed him. To lose her, when he has only just begun to realize how much she truly means to him (_The marks, _he remembers, _those damned marks the bastard left on her, like she's some fucking prize_) would probably finish the job. Kidman and Joseph are missing, and he can't find them, and now Alice is engaged in a lethal game of tag. The three of them have always been his responsibility; he knows that he has failed Oda and Kidman, and he will be damned if he fails her, too. But he knows that to move now is guaranteed suicide, so he remains as still as he is able, until Ruvik has disappeared.

Once the blue aura is gone, he steps out of the closet, looking around to be certain that he is truly alone, that this is not some trick to lure him to his death. When the colors of the room stay normal, he sighs, rubbing his face roughly with his hand, the cold metal of his wedding band a stark reminder of what is gone and promises broken. He searches through the kitchen and finds nothing of any true value: more of that green gel that fades at the touch, a few scattered bullets, and a syringe. In the pantry, however, he halts in his tracks, eyes riveted on the strange contraption at the back of the room. A head sits on the table, skin and skull removed to expose the top half of the brain, and an odd machine with a large vial of some reddish liquid looms behind it, an arm tipped with a grotesque needle extending from it to hover over the grey mass.

He studies the charts, swears when he realizes how intricate it is. This is something that Alice would make easy work of, but she is not here, and he will have to make do. He presses the button on the machine next to him, listening as Ruvik's voice permeates the air, cold and methodical.

"_Electrode placement C-4; stimulation of the cingulate cortex, the hope center. Assailing the hope axis improves domination of the subjects will, but . . . domination is not enough."_

The chart marks the 'hope center' as a large, yellow area towards the top, so Sebastian positions the needle and flicks the lever, hoping for the best. Apparently, he is not quite on the mark; the machine delivers a shock that has him recoiling away, snarling obscenities under his breath. His second try is more successful. Once the needle is inserted, the fluid begins to drain from the chamber, and the sound of a lock releasing resonates from the main hall. Upon inspection, he finds a large door under the stairs with two similar locks, and feels something akin to disgust when he realizes that he will have to hunt down two more machines and repeat the process to open the door. Since it's looking to be their only way out, he squares he shoulders and strides off, throwing a quick glance up the stairs as he goes.

_Hang on, Liddell. I'm coming._

* * *

_Fuck_.

If it had not been for the man who had seen her while she had been peeking out of the chest, searching for Ruvik, Alice might have been able to stay hidden. She _might_ not have been forced to fire her gun, drawing the attention of every one of those things on the upper floor. She _might_ have been able to creep away, undetected, and reunite with Sebastian. Unfortunately, this is not a world of _might_s, and she is cornered, again, the axe her in hand shattering when she embeds it into a woman's skull. Her face is streaked with blood and chunks of bone and flesh, the once pristine shirt splattered with crimson, and some of it is her own, from those strikes she had not been able to dodge completely.

_Fucking shitty world full of shitty monsters like some shitty horror flick. _

Now, like the icing on a cake that she does not want, Ruvik enters the room; there is nothing remotely friendly in his gaze, nor in the way that he stalks towards her, cloak billowing around his knees. With a simple touch of his hand, the heads of the remaining creatures explode, showering her with more fluid, though none of it seems to land on him. Alice feints to the right, but Ruvik is there, and, before she can change direction, she skids into him, fighting for purchase on the slick floor. His hand is around her throat then, pressing, suffocating, crushing her airways as he forces her back so the shelves dig painfully into her spine. There is a faint sizzling noise and the gore is removed from her clothes, skin, and hair, but any relief there might have been at such an act is snuffed when he forces his thigh between her legs, pinning her between himself and the unforgiving bookcase.

"Did you truly think you could hide from me?" It is a whispered snarl, and his eyes are furious enough to cause her struggles, for the moment, to cease. "That I would not find you, when I know everywhere you may have thought to hide?"

Spots dance in front of her eyes; she claws weakly at his hands, seeking release, and he watches her cruelly. "Ruben," she wheezes, "stop. Please." A flicker of surprise dances across his face, gone as quickly as it comes, and his grip slackens enough to allow her to breathe, though she is still trapped. Chest heaving, each breath burning her bruised throat, she stares at him, startled that he had shown that small glimmer of mercy. The hand around her neck shifts, and he caresses the skin like a lover would. Ruvik leans closer, burying his nose in the hair that hangs beside her face, inhaling softly to catch the scent that brings him back to childhood. Cinnamon, cloves, spiced and fragrant, the strands soft enough to be mistaken for silk, so unlike Laura's.

He _craves_. And what he wants, he _takes_.

But first, she must understand the price of disobedience. After a moment of consideration, he takes her to the place that will cause her the most grief, and leaves her there to suffer.

* * *

"_Lizzie, Lizzie! Look, watch what I can do!"_

_The eldest Liddell daughter glances up from the dusty tome in her lap, starting from her seat when she sees her sister balanced precariously on the back of their father's chair, arms spread for balance, one leg bent at the knee to hold it off of the fabric. Their parents have gone to the Church to attend to some business, after which the four of them are expected at the Victoriano estate for dinner, and she has been left in charge of the home. If either their father or their mother were to enter, they would flay her alive for paying so little attention to Alice that she was able to climb the chair. Lizzie stands, dropping the book to the floor, and moves quickly to Alice, reaching her just in time to catch her when she teeters and falls, a small 'oof' escaping her when she collides with Lizzie's chest._

"_What were you thinking?!" The scolding begins as soon as Alice's feet are safely on the ground. "What if I hadn't been here?"_

_Alice regards her with some surprise. "I would have gotten hurt, I suppose," she replies matter-of-fact. _

_Lizzie sighs, shaking her head in adult-like resignation. "I won't always be here to catch you, Allie. Please be more careful in the future."_

"_Sure you will," Alice chirps, voice as irrepressibly cheerful as any child's. "You're my sister, after all, and you say that no force in the universe can ever keep us apart!"_

The room is a ghost of its former self. Everything in it is waterlogged, rotting, books swollen and mold creeping up the walls, yet Alice can still make out the fleur-de-lis print of the wallpaper, the horrid plaid of her father's favorite reading place. She knows that, on the table at its side, there will still be marks where she and Lizzie carved their initials one rainy day, that there is probably still the remnants of red nail polish on the rug where they had knocked the bottle over. She can still remember the way her mother's hands had covered her mouth when she saw the stain and the way they had worsened it with polish remover, can still hear her father's baritone laughter as he reassured her mother that it was a hideous rug anyway and they had probably added some charm to it.

Unable to stand on legs that have turned to something rather like Jell-O, Alice slides down the wall, staring blankly ahead of her. _Home._ But there was nothing like that in this empty shell with only the faint echoes of sorrow reverberating through the halls. Once again, she feels the smoke scorching her lungs, smells the acrid stench of burning upholstery, and her stomach roils. There is just enough time for her to twist onto her knees, and then she is retching, bile and the remnants of a meager breakfast splattering against the splintered floor. She staggers to her feet when she has finished, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, and stumbles towards the door, stopping when a voice whispers from behind her.

"Welcome home, Allie."

_No. No. No. No. No._ Against her will, she turns, and sees the very thing that has haunted her nightmares for years. Lizzie is in front of her, only it cannot be Lizzie, Lizzie is dead and buried in a casket in the Krimson City Cemetery, Lizzie whose casket had to be closed because her body was too badly damaged, Lizzie who had barely looked human, according to the police in charge of the case. This Lizzie is cold, pale, one eye gone, the socket glistening red in the watery light, dress torn and blood on her thighs, wrists and ankles chafed and raw, a necklace of crimson splashed across the slender column of her throat.

The specter draws closer, pallid fingers pressing against her cheek, and, when it speaks, the voice is papery and thin. "We've been waiting."


	8. Chapter 8 - Those That Sever

**A/N: **If anyone would be interested, I've considered putting together a playlist on 8tracks that consists of the songs that will be at the beginning of each chapter so that they can be easily listened to when you read. Other than that, there are no important updates! I would, however, like to thank everyone for their continued support. All of my love to all of you!

**Warning: **Violence, trauma, grief, and allusions to rape are made.

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing related to _The Evil Within_, nor do I own the lyrics to any songs that might appear. The name Alice Liddell and her family belong originally to Lewis Carroll, with her appearance drawing heavily from _American McGee's Alice: Madness Returns_. This is a nonprofit work.

[line break]

"_Dig up her bones, but leave the soul alone.  
Let her find a way to a better place.  
Broken dreams and silent screams,  
empty churches with soulless curses . . ."  
_— "Bones," MS MR

Alice presses against the door, feeling it strain beneath her weight, hearing the weakened hinges groan, and fumbles for the latch. If she does not escape that dead thing's touch, she will go insane, she is certain of it, yet she cannot seem to find the lever that will grant her freedom. A whimpering moan leaves her when she sees two more shapes forming in the darkened corners of the room—within seconds, the charred semblances of Elaine and Augustus Liddell are standing behind Lizzie, eyes almost desperate as they reach for her, and finally, _finally_ she finds the handle and shoves against it, thumbing the latch out of reflex, thankful that the door opens outwards and not inwards. She stumbles through, and barely closes it in time, coming close to crushing Lizzie's fingers between it and the frame. Her breath leaves her in wheezing gasps, sobs wracking her slender frame as she rests her head against the slimy wood, and she can feel the shaking as it spreads down her arms.

She can hear those _things_ scratching at the door, trying to get to her, so she forces herself to straighten. A nearby table, once the home for family photos and a vase that housed seasonal flowers is grabbed and unceremoniously shoved in front of it, and she rests her weight against it to make sure that it is snugly in place before she backs away. For a moment, the grime and decay fade away to be replaced by vibrant colors, and the faint sounds of content singing reach her from the direction of the kitchen. The illusion is gone in an instant. Still, she moves down the hall without truly meaning to, pausing briefly in the doorway to examine the room that was once the heart of their home. Her mother's prized china is shattered in the cabinets, whose doors hang from rusted hinges or lay on the floor. The pots and pans are little more than brittle paper, more holes that metal, and crunch beneath her feet as she enters.

On the dilapidated remains of the table is a recorder that she has grown so familiar with, as well as a journal. The journal, after a brief inspection, turns out to be Sebastian's, and she debates between it and the recorder for several seconds before she lifts it, fingers turning the worn pages with care, as if it is something delicate that will fall apart in her hands if she is too rough. The entry is about her, she realizes, and returns to the beginning to read it more thoroughly.

_January 6, 2013_

_It's been little over six years since she joined our team, and she's proven to be nothing but useful, despite my initial distrust. I thought she looked frail, with her doll's face and doe eyes, body so slender that the lightest gust of wind should have blown her apart, but she's stronger than she looks. Maybe that's how she made it so far. There's a steel beneath her skin, and, sometimes, in the heat of a case, her eyes are dangerously bright. I've caught myself wondering if that same light would be there if I made love to her, but I won't find out. I can't. She's made that clear enough._

"_Do you want to have sex with me?" Christ, she asked it so casually, like she was asking about the weather or what we were having for lunch. I didn't know what to say. Yes came to mind, but would she get angry? When she told me that she wanted it, too, I almost went to her, but then she set the boundary. We're coworkers and friends, and that's all we'll ever be. I don't have to ask, but I'm certain that it has something to do with that file she's always pouring over. Joseph probably noticed the easy way she laughed at something I said, like all was right in the world, but it wasn't._

_Can I still be faithful to Myra if I'm constantly thinking about someone else?_

_The mischievous grin that comes more easily than her smile, the hard way she stares at suspects, daring them to give her a reason to use her gun, the carefree tone of her laugh, the soft huskiness of her voice, the smoothness of her skin, the silkiness of her hair and the way she smells, not flowery like most women, but spiced, like cinnamon . . ._

_I don't know what to do._

She presses a hand to her mouth, biting lightly at the knuckles. After their talk, she hadn't really given much thought to the issue. Why would she? In her mind, it was resolved: they had spoken about it like adults and gone about their business. If he sat a little close to her when they went to a bar after work, so what? If Joseph sometimes glanced up from whatever he was working on to see Sebastian's hand resting against the small of her back while they poured over files, what did it matter? Alice closes her eyes, exhaling tiredly through her nose. Sebastian still wore his wedding ring, and she carried the promise ring woven clumsily by a child's hands, and there was no place for either of them in the other's bed. One hand raises to rub at her temple, the other pressing the 'play' button on the recorder.

"_That cockroach, that sycophant; living off of me, feeding off of my work. I'll have to figure out how he got the combination to my safe. But there's no time for that now; I'm so close. No one can have that data. It is mine. My only way . . . Whoever opens that safe next had better be ready to pay the price."_

Whom was he referring to? Her brows furrow. Someone is helping him, surely, with his research and his experiments, someone who knows . . . She freezes, eyes widening with the realization, the knowledge that there is a snake in their midst, that he has been there from the very beginning, that he knows how they can escape and has kept it to himself while using them to survive. _Jimenez_. And that bastard was searching for Leslie. Why? Was Leslie the key to leaving this place? She clucks her tongue, tapping her fingers against the table, eyes focused on some far-off place. Hunting the good doctor has just been bumped to the top of her priorities, if she survives this place.

"I wasn't talking in my sleep, you know."

_Shit._ In the grimy window, Alice catches the reflection of Lizzie standing in the doorway, expression a mixture of fury and sorrow. As what remains of her sister steps closer, she maneuvers, desperate to keep something between them, as the ghost is blocking the only exit. Lizzie halts on the other side and slams her hand on the table, and it turns to ash beneath her touch, collapsing to the warped tile beneath their feet. _Fuck_. She is too slow to move, and those creeping fingers close around her forearm, kept from her skin only by the fabric of her shirt. Nevertheless, pain lances up her arm as the cloth begins to smolder and blacken, the skin beneath blistering. It takes all of her strength to wrench away, and she slams against the counter behind her, the cold granite jarring and knocking the wind out of her.

"He hurt me, Allie, in ways that you could never know." Lizzie's fingers drift to the hem of the plain nightgown she's wearing, come up red and gleaming, and Alice fights back the urge to retch. "And when he was done he slit my throat so I could never tell."

Blackened claws curl around her wrists, her ankles, her throat, locking Alice in place. Another cups her chin, sharp nails pressing against her lips, attempting to force entry. She sinks her teeth into it, repulsion coursing through her with something vile and bitter splashes onto her tongue. When that one retreats, a pair cup her breasts roughly while another tears through the fabric of her jeans into the flesh of her thigh. Alice jerks away from the sensation, kicking her leg to try to free it. To her surprise, the limbs shatter beneath the force, and it is not long before she breaks away from the rest of them. Lizzie observes this with some sort of surprise, loathing curling her lips into a grimace. Where the hands had touched her the fabric is burnt and torn, revealing the skin beneath, but Alice pays that no mind, instead turning to pass by Lizzie. What did not work on Ruvik works on _it_, and, when it follows her feint, she quickly changes direction, darting through the door and back down the hall.

She knows without checking that the door that leads outside is sealed, so she heads left, up the stairs, and finds herself in her old room without really knowing why. It is exactly as she left it in her hurry to escape the fire—bed covers thrown back, trailing towards the window where they had tangled around her legs, lamp shattered after she had knocked it over with her elbow, and Alice is struck by the sensation that she is once again a girl of nine, panic seizing her lungs as the flames creep under her door. A scream bubbles in her throat, and she chokes it back, gasping for air.

Without warning, the room becomes grainy, colors washed out to various hues of gray, and, out of nowhere, a woman in an old nurse's uniform appears and looks at Alice before walking into the mirror on the burned dresser. The warped glass cracks as the room returns to normal, and the faint chords of _Clair de Lune_ fill the air. When the floorboard outside of her room creaks underneath something's weight, she crosses over to it, placing her palm against the cool surface. The mirror begins to glow, and her vision fades to black. There is an unholy screech behind her, and grasping fingers curl into the back of her shirt as she is taken away.

[line break]

_A heart monitor beeps nearby. Her vision is red, hazy, and it is hard to make out who is nearby. The white coat gleams in the gloom, and a doctor's face swims into view as he leans over her, index and middle fingers pressing into her neck while he checks her pulse. He warps for a brief second into Kidman, eyes clinical and assessing, and Alice tries to call out to her. The nurse at her shoulder becomes a man in a black suit, tapping the end of a syringe full of some vile, green liquid. Kidman nods to him, and the man hands her the syringe. The needle pierces the skin of Alice's elbow, and she tries to squirm away, only for the bands strapped to her arms and legs to hold her in place. The small wound is swabbed with alcohol and a cotton ball is taped over it, and then the doctor and the nurse leave the room, the doctor sparing her once last glance before he leaves. Once the swinging doors close, a clawed hand clasps the edge of the table, followed by three more. What crawls up is a creature from her darkest dreams, a warped and twisted visage that might have once been . . . _

"_Laura?"_

[line]

"Are you awake?"

The voice, monotonous and measured, stirs her from her slumber. The bed beneath her is cleaner than she would have expected, given her filthy surroundings, and the woman from her room is watching her through the barred window on the door. Alice groans, forcing herself to sit up, cradling her head in her hands as the room spins and nausea wells up. The lady hums thoughtfully, and the sound of the key in the lock draws Alice's attention. The nurse pulls the door open before she wanders off; Alice swings her legs over the side of the bed and stands, wobbling slightly before her balance returns and she can walk, though she is forced to lean against the wall to do so. There is an audio log on the desk; she stares at wearily for a moment before starting it, but is forced to listen again when her tired mind cannot process the words the first time.

"_The sedative they used on me must have been my own. I was aware of every slice, every severed nerve, every tug of flesh pulled away from my bones until absolute darkness overtook me. Darkness and pain. A thousand other sensations as they probed my cerebrum, examined my work. An eternity of intensity; pain, pleasure, rage, ecstasy, blending together into a single, piercing noise, until the darkness was broken by sparks, like twinkling starlight. The pain, the noise, the light blends together, takes shape. It is a place I know so well, a face I had long forgotten . . . My prison. My home. My betrayer."_

_Ruben . . . _Beyond the point of tears, she simply remains still, eyes focused on nothing, a tired ache spreading through her bones. _Be careful what you wish for_, that old saying goes, but she had never imagined that her search for the truth would lead her to this hell. How long had he been alive after his father declared him dead? How long had he gone on, abandoned, suffering, the loss of Laura and his own pain slowly removing his last ounces of humanity until all that was left was a vengeful shell? Why hadn't she been able to find him? Pain had kept her from both her own home and his estate, even in adulthood, and there were no records of his existence beyond the fire. Would she have seen him, if she had gone back? Would he have wanted her to? Would she have been able to make a difference?

Would he still be Ruben?


	9. Chapter 9 - Those That Twist

**A/N: **Thank you for your continued support, and a huge shout-out to my beta, MerkinViolet!

**Warning: **Some sexual content, if you squint.

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing related to _The Evil Within_, nor do I own the lyrics to any songs that might appear. The name Alice Liddell and her family belong originally to Lewis Carroll, with her appearance drawing heavily from _American McGee's Alice: Madness Returns_. This is a nonprofit work.

* * *

"_Sweet dreams are made of these; who am I to disagree?  
Travelled the world and the seven seas. Everybody's looking for something.  
Some of them want to use you, some of them want to get used by you.  
Some of them want to abuse you, some of them want to be abused.  
I'm gonna use you, and abuse you. I'm gonna know what's inside you."  
_— "Sweet Dreams (Are Made of These)," Marilyn Manson

Soft sighs resonate, air condensing on every shuddered exhalation as pallid fingers twist in silken sheets the color of a crow's feathers. Nimble limbs tremble while a supple spine arches in silent supplication—it has been minutes, hours, days, an instant and an eternity while pain and pleasure twine together, curling toes and halting breaths alike. Scarred digits smooth over protruding scapulae, tracing the jagged edges of old wounds where flame has caressed the tender flesh. The dainty form settles while chapped lips press against the hollow of the throat, parting so the tongue can dart out to taste the skin, curling when a pleased whine echoes throughout the room.

_Little minx_, he thinks, uncomfortable where heated skin meets his own, yet unwilling to break the tenuous, peaceful trance weighing on the both of them by pulling away. When smoky lashes part to reveal vibrant virescent hues, he knows that he is dreaming, clings to it tenaciously. There is no desire to awaken, not when torment is his only companion, but the world spins ever on, and the vision dissolves before his eyes, replaced by the darkness he knows all too well.

_Don't go_, he pleads wordlessly. _Don't leave me again_.

_Allie._

* * *

"Please sign in," the nurse says.

Alice glances lazily at the form indicated, taking in the numerous repetitions of Sebastian's untidy scrawl and the painfully indicative lack of Joseph's tidy loops. The woman on the other side of the counter watches her patiently, silent admonishment in that dead-fish gaze, and Alice uses the opportunity to fully study her. A snowy cap, resting atop smooth sepia hair styled neatly into a simple ponytail, that complements her plain, button-down dress, red sweater, pristine clogs, and simple glasses, which frame studious, coffee eyes. The style is eerily reminiscent of the one seen in those films set in mental wards, an odd mix of modern and vintage, and the nurse—if that is even what she is—fills the role near perfectly. Apathetic, coolly condescending, she heaves a long-suffering sigh and taps the top of the counter with one manicured nail.

"There will be no way to keep track of your records if you don't sign in," she says, and Alice picks up the provided pen and scribbles her name beneath Sebastian's, mindful of the watchful stare pinned to her form. "Good. Follow me, please."

The two women walk over towards a gate, the nurse sure and confident, Alice wary. Once the grate is open, she is led to a small room dominated by the chair in its center. It is a plain wooden thing, sinister in its simplicity. Its leather straps settle hungrily around the arms and legs while a metal cap protrudes over its back. It is a lazy predator, a spider waiting for the next unwitting fly. Alice has no desire to sit in it, but the nurse is watching her impatiently, so she forces herself to move to it on legs that feel ridiculously heavy, gingerly pressing against it once she is seated. The straps come to life, snapping around her wrists and ankles, and the cap lowers to cover her eyes. A mechanical humming fills her ears, not unlike the one she has heard when forced to attend executions (there have only been two, thank the heavens, both child murderers, and, though she had been required to stay, only the warm pressure of Sebastian's hand on her shoulder had kept her from bolting). Fear follows closely in its wake, coiling in her gut.

When the pain comes, it is so fierce and sudden that she cries out against her will, straining against the bonds. Every nerve is on fire, electricity arching beneath her skin as shock after shock is delivered to her system, and just as she feels that it will kill her, it must, the machine quiets and releases her. The nurse is watching her thoughtfully, silently, and only moves to step away and allow Alice to stand.

The brutal reprimand dies on Alice's lips when she realizes that all of her wounds are gone and that her clothing has returned to the pristine state previous to her arrival (even her simple red button-down, used to bind Sebastian's wounds, is once again covering her undershirt). There are the simultaneous feelings of an intense caffeine high and exhaustion warring within her, and she notes with some surprise that a number of empty jars equal to both the numerous shocks and the containers of green gel she had acquired stand on the table next to the chair.

_So that's what it's for…_

"What is this place?" she wonders.

* * *

Ruvik is growing weary of the tireless obstinacy that greets him at every turn. If it is not her refusing him what is rightfully his, it is the way Castellanos continues to survive, or Jimenez's attempts to utilize his connection to the boy to escape. The Amalgam had easily taken care of the latter, yet the detective slipped from his clutches once again, leaving behind only the certainty that he would, once more, keep Alice from her true place. His eyelids lower, hooding his gaze, as he paces through familiar halls, thoughts tracing scattered paths. Without truly knowing, he enters the room from his childhood, eyes tracing the rumpled sheets that marked his previous activities. While Mobius had pulled him apart, his periods of rest were full of dreams so vivid that, at times, he was convinced that they were his reality instead of the torture he endured. Now… those paltry imaginings were phantoms compared to the truth. The taste of her assaults him so suddenly that discarded arousal flared briefly to life. It brings in its wake a hardening of resolve. The next time that infuriating woman is within his grasp, she will not weasel away.

* * *

Avoiding the remnants of her beloved family becomes easier the longer she is in the house. So long as she remains hidden from their direct line of sight, and refrains from causing noise when they are nearby, they move on, none the wiser to her presence. Lizzie's room is the most harrowing to enter—her parents, though loving and much loved, had been the sort to let their children alone so long as no mischief was being caused—for how many times had she crept into it as a child in the middle of the night, chasing away nightmares or simply seeking familiar company? The door, to no surprise, is not locked. Lizzie had loathed locked doors and claimed that they only encouraged secrets, of which there were none between them. It creaks beneath her palm, rusted hinges squealing as it swings inward, revealing what remains of a once-safe haven.

Everything is charred, decrepit—the glass from frames and windows shattered from the heat that had ravished the place. It crunches beneath her heels as she walks forward, gaze locked on the husk of Lizzie's bed, where warped springs aim heavenward like the gnarled fingers of sinners. Placed on the only firm piece of mattress is yet another tape recorder, but it is disregarded in favor of the metal bedframe. The top left knob pops off in her hand, just as it had in her youth, and she reaches into it, fingers curling around a small box and a card. The card is artfully crafted, containing birthday wishes and reaffirmations of love from elder sister to younger. The box, a creation of black velvet, is opened to reveal a simple silver chain, from which dangles a shard of quartz cradled in swirling steel. A smile tugs unbidden at her lips. How often had she admired a similar charm of Lizzie's, listening raptly as her elder sister explained its ability to channel protective energies?

The card is folded and placed in the safety of her back pocket, and then trembling fingers lift the necklace to clasp it around her neck. The crystal rests against crux of her clavicle and sternum, delightfully cool where it touches heated skin. Once it is settled correctly and she is certain it will not fall, she turns her attention back to the recording left so blatantly in plain sight. It draws her, just as flames draw the moth, and she wishes to both listen to it and to smash it against the wall. _He_ is invading her every thought, lingering in the back of her mind, and she can no more escape the memory of his rough touch than she can the scars on her back.

A soft sighs escapes her as she reminisces on what was and could have been, how easily it was crushed by the realization that whatever remained of that boy was so utterly twisted as to be unrecognizable within the cruel man who now haunts her.

Resolute in what must be done, fearful at what will happen, Alice presses '_play._'

"_Somehow, I can see that light, that shaft of light from the lighthouse, from anywhere in this place. It seems to penetrate everything; penetrate me. That view of the hospital is not my memory, yet, somehow, it is more solid than anything I have made exist here. Was it always there? Something changed under that light. It calls. It repulses. It draws the others. They think they'll reach the source, regain what they've lost. They don't even know what that is."_

The voice washes over her, pulling at the parts of her psyche that are already stained by his possessive caresses. As if summoned by her thoughts alone, she feels him materialize behind her, the fabric of his clothing whispering against her back. There is a heavy silence between them as she studies his reflection in what is left of the window, watching as his eyes, dark and ravenous, travel the expanse of her form. When his gaze flicks up to meet hers in the mirror, she remains still, even as one of his hands tangles in the locks of her hair and brings it to his nose. His words come out as a low rumble, vibrating against the nape of her neck.

"You understand now, don't you?"

Slender fingers raise to grasp the pendant at her throat, as if to ward off the power he has over her. Her silence only seems to irk him. The grip on her hair becomes a rough tug, and he pulls her head back so that she is looking at him upside down as he looms over her.

"Yes," she says at last, "but I cannot give you what you want." _Not yet_, she adds silently. There is still too much for her to do, and as long as her partners—her _family_—are stuck in this place, she cannot allow him to dominate her completely.

He appears to consider that for a moment, stare heavy upon her face. "And I cannot allow you to leave."

"Ruvik," she breathes, sounding perilously close to exasperation. "_Please_."

His eyes close at her plea, a noise not unlike a purr reverberating from his chest. The fingers in her hair loosen enough to ease the discomfort while his free arm snakes across her torso, hand curling around her throat. Outright resistance has gotten her nowhere, but if his reactions are any indication, there is the possibility that she might be able to outwit him—if only long enough to help the others. Her own digits release the quartz, reaching up to wrap around the lean musculature of his forearm. Ruvik opens his eyes halfway, peering at her with mild interest.

Some things simply never change, he muses, observing the odd way Alice looks at him, as though she is debating between relaxing into his touch and attempting to force him away.

"What are you planning, little mouse?" he murmurs, stroking the pulse under her ear.

He watches as she melts partially under the touch, a pleased puff leaving her lungs, before straightening and resting her head against his shoulder. "A deal."

"Oh?"

"Let me go." The grip around her throat tightens as he stiffens behind her, though she pays it little mind. "Let me help them. It would be helping you, wouldn't it?" Her fingers stroke the skin beneath them with feather-light touches. "Once I'm done, I won't fight anymore."

The response is flat, cold. "You would sell yourself to aid _them_? No."

The temptation to laugh bubbles within her, barely crushed by the true severity of the situation. "Who am I _selling_ myself to? You? I did that years ago, when I promised myself to you." Her lips twist down, the faintest frown gracing her features. "All I'm asking for is an extension."

His fingers drop from her hair, ghosting across the covered flesh of her abdomen until they encounter the border of her shirt. They slip underneath, cold where they trace idle patterns against heated skin, leaving trails of pinpricks in their wake. "An extension?" There is still no inflection to his words. Nonetheless, she is not worried.

"Yes."

"How long?"

This time it is a smile that tugs at her lips, and she nuzzles the junction of his neck and shoulder. It is cruel of her, she knows, to use his demented craving for her to her advantage, yet it is all she can think of. By bartering for time, she might be able to reunite with the others and find a way to leave this hellish place. When they were younger, she could twist him with a pretty word if his mood was good enough, and it seems that an inkling of that weakness still remains. She wonders if he's aware of it.

"Three hours."

"One."

"Two."

A sigh grazes her cheek, and she bites down on the inside of her lip to keep herself from crowing in victory. It dissipates when the hold on her neck becomes vise-like, her chin forced back so they are staring at each other. His neck cranes so their noses brush, and there is something dangerous behind the cool gaze levelled upon her, a silent promise that she cannot read and does not have time to decipher. When his lips meet hers in a kiss, it is nowhere as demanding as the previous one; it is lazy, possessive, a mark on what he claims as his, and she responds to it (only, she tries to tell herself, to keep up the illusion she is trying to weave).

"Two hours," he agrees, lips still grazing hers. "No more. I have run _out_ of patience, Alice."

And then he is gone.


	10. Chapter 10 - Those That Tear

**A/N: **Whew! I hope everyone had a great time over the holidays! Unfortunately, I was burned by a Roman candle, shot in the face with glass, broke my phone, and lost my internet connection for quite a while, which is why this chapter is so delayed. This chapter was remarkably hard to write. Whether the difficulty comes from my own inexperience when it comes to writing scenes that involve any sort of action or the fact that my intention was to _not_ copy the methodology of the fight with Laura, I'm not sure.

**Warnings:** Violence and foul language.

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing related to _The Evil Within_, nor do I own the lyrics to any songs that might appear. The name Alice Liddell and her family belong originally to Lewis Carroll, with her appearance drawing heavily from _American McGee's Alice: Madness Returns_. This is a nonprofit work.

* * *

"_You don't want to hurt me, but see how deep the bullet lies?  
You're unware that I'm tearing you asunder; there is thunder  
in our hearts, baby. So much hate for the ones we love…  
Tell me, we both matter, don't we?"  
_— "Running Up That Hill," Placebo

_I have turned . . ._

Plaster rains as the monstrous form barrels through the walls, shrieking deranged gibberish as it chases its prey. The dust settles in her hair and on her clothes, a reminder that while her pursuer gains ground, she continues to lose it, yet there is no time to check its progress, nor an opportunity to even attempt some sort of retribution. The hallway is longer than it should be (the upper floor of her home contained only four rooms) and the décor slowly morphs the farther she goes, until she is loping through the gutted structure of a law office. This place is as familiar as the last—only blocks away from the K.C.P.D. building—J.R. Patterson &amp; Associates had been a familiar haunt during her teenage years, as her social worker occupied a large space on the top floor. He fought bitterly for her to become emancipated, citing her inheritance and independence, and the two of them had shared a cigarette and what she pretended was her first beer when he won the case.

Alice wracks her brain for any place she can go that might be open enough for her to stand her ground. The parking garage on the lowest level seems appealing, but something tells her that it would be too cramped and far too easy to become cornered there, so she breaks left, heading for the stairs that will take her to the roof.

_. . . into the one thing . . ._

Adrenaline courses, pulling her lips into a smile that she cannot stop, and a laugh tears from her when she hears the beast howl its fury when it gets stuck in the narrow space. It is not slowed for long, but the delay buys her enough time to slam the door behind her and duck around a nearby air-conditioning unit. There are a few supplies behind it, and the silver case at her feet turns out to hold a shotgun and a box that contains six shells. The glint of steel and glass alerts her to more items scattered around on the concrete, but her adversary has finally caught up, so she settles for loading the gun. The abrasive weapon has never been one of her favorites (once, when given the option between it and a sniper rifle, she had claimed the rifle so quickly that Sebastian had teased her for weeks afterwards), but she knows how to use it correctly, and it is all she has. Bracing it against her shoulder, she takes aim and fires. A chunk of flesh blows from the creature's shoulder, exploding into red mist under the force of the shot, and it screams in a combination of pain and hatred. The white and gray skin of its face ripples, constantly swirling between the faces of her family, grotesque limbs and claws flailing as it turns to get her in its sights.

_. . . I never wanted to be._

The two of them stare at each other. Now that they are in the weak daylight, Alice can better make it out, and it makes her stomach churn. Though humanoid in appearance, it stands an easy seven feet, arms so long that they act as a second set of legs. Each appendage ends in hideously long prehensile hands, and the coloration of the skin fades from white to black. It seems to be made of clay with how the form bulges and settles almost constantly, and what could be either coagulated blood or tar runs over it in rivers, sizzling where it drips onto the stone beneath their feet. It reeks, even from here, the scent of dead and decaying things making her eyes water. The temporary peace ends when it lunges at her, and she barely scrambles out of the way before it crashes into the space she had been only seconds before. Sebastian would have been proud of the litany of curses she releases, firing even as she moves, and, though this shot slams into the center of its chest, all it does is stagger. However slight, the interruption of its movement gives her just enough time to line up the sights of the gun with its skull.

It shrieks when blood and bone splatter on its shoulders, brain matter leaking from the hole in its head to ooze down its face. A hand darts out, faster than she can catch, and sends her skidding across the rooftop. Winded, it is all she can do to roll away before it crushes her beneath pummeling fists. A swatch of red catches her attention, and her desperate gaze lands on a drum marked '_flammable_.' The first shot misses, but the second hits home, and the barrel explodes, dousing the creature in flame. It howls as it writhes, twisting futilely to put the fire consuming it out. Another barrel is settled to her left—how many are there that she hasn't noticed?—and one slender leg knocks it onto its side and kicks it towards the creature. It, too, is set alight just as the previous barrel runs out of fuel. The monster stumbles, reaching for her even as its legs give out, and it crumples to the ground. The sickly form dissolves, achingly slow, into ash, leaving behind the immobile body of Lizzie, head turned so blue eyes stare sightlessly at Alice.

"I'm so sorry, Lizzie," she wheezes, doubling over to clutch at her side. "I never wanted any of this. It—" _should have been me_ " —was never supposed to turn out this way."

The strength leaves her legs. Still, she forces herself to walk over to the corpse, and she lays next to it, curling on her side and reaching out to touch its face. Tears cut paths through the grime on her face, trailing over her nose towards her ear, yet she makes no move to wipe them away. Shock had kept her from mourning properly as a child, and she had always kept herself so busy that grief could never truly take hold. Joseph had told her once that she was always running, because to stop would mean facing a truth she didn't want to see, and she had almost slapped him for it. (_"With him, it's sinking quietly into the bottle. I'd know what to do if that's how you dealt with it, but… you don't. You never do."_) Now there is nowhere left to run and, with nothing to keep it at bay, sorrow suffocates her. The sobs rip from her with a startling violence, and she squeezes into the smallest ball she can manage, arms curling around her heaving chest as if to hold herself together.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." It becomes a mantra that she cannot stop repeating, tumbling from her lips—

"_It isn't as high as it looks, Alice." Lizzie's hands are on her hips, a firm frown on her pretty face as she blows locks of hair out of her eyes. Alice had made it to the top of the slide's ladder before fear froze her in place. It is much taller than the one on the toddler's playground, but she is no longer a child and it is time, in Lizzie's eyes, for her to conquer it. Lizzie had done it at five, and Alice is six now, so there should be no issues, but Alice remains rooted firmly to the top rung. Adults nearby chatter sympathetically and that only serves to heighten Lizzie's ire. Her father had been kind and encouraging, she remembers, but they were due home soon, and if Alice didn't do it now, she never would. _

"_Well?" Impatience reigns in Lizzie's voice. "Are you going to do it or not?" _

_Alice shoots her a frightened glance, and then, so timidly that Lizzie doubts she will _go _anywhere, she sits on the cold metal and pushes off. A short scream leaves her as she slides, but Lizzie is there to catch her at the bottom, and pulls her to her feet. "There. That wasn't so bad, was it?"_

—as if the mere repetition—

"_What _are _you doing?" Alice looks up from the mirror, eyes wide and framed by a raccoon's worth of eye makeup. Her sister is peering around the door, one brow cocked in a remarkable imitation of their mother, lips twitching as she tries not to laugh. From the way various containers are scattered along the vanity's surface, and the photo, cut delicately from the latest fashion magazine, is taped to the glass, she knows that Alice is attempting to emulate what she sees, but the heavy application technique she has used, though meticulous, is more reminiscent of a clown than a model. _

"_I only wanted to look nice," Alice says meekly. _

_Lizzie steps into the room, head cocked. "Why?" A shrug is the only response she receives, and she huffs, well aware that there is a function at the church that they, along with the Victoriano family, are required to attend in two days. Finally, she sighs. "Here. Let me help."_

—will undo all that has been done—

_The dress is nice. Stiff, as it is new, but the fabric is soft and it is nowhere near as bulky as the ones she has seen on some of the other girls her age. Her mother had been insistent that she wear something other than her usual Sunday clothing to the party, and a trip to a local tailor had been arranged. The fabric is black silk, tight on her torso with a skirt that flares at her hips and brushes the tops of her knees. As it is summer, the sleeves are short, and are neither puffed nor adorned with ribbons, though there is one tied in a bow around her neck, a gift from Lizzie. Alice had been forced to sit through a torturous session while her mother combed her hair and braided the front into two strands that wrapped around her head, but it had been made better when Lizzie had snuck into her room to apply the faintest bits of mascara to her lashes and color to her lips. She looks oddly adult for a girl of almost seven and the effect it has is obvious. Ruben has been stealing glances at her all night, though his father's demand that he greet all business associates has kept him from greeting her properly, and each glance brings a flush to her cheeks that Lizzie is keen to tease her on._

—bring back what can never be replaced—

_The smoke is choking, burning her throat with every panicked gasp that contracts her lungs. Heat blisters her palms when she tries to twist the knob, and fear nearly freezes her in place when she finds it locked. She _never _locks her door, never _ever_, because Lizzie says that it means she is keeping secrets, and she hides nothing from her sister. The dim sounds of her parents pounding on a door and shouting for Lizzie reach her through the quiet roar of the fire, and she cries out to them, unsure of what to do. There are seconds of silence, and then her father's rough voice penetrates the wood of the door. "Open the door, Alice!" _

"_I can't," she sobs, "it's locked and I don't have the key!" _

_It is the first and last time she ever hears Augustus Liddell swear in her presence, and then he says, in a voice that is terrifyingly calm, "Go out the window. Your mother, sister, and I will meet you outside in a moment. Go now, girl." She is deathly afraid of heights, but her father has spoken, and she is duty-bound to obey. The pane lifts easily, despite the way her arms tremble, and she wriggles through the gap. The one thing she forgets to account for is the light frost coating the shingles, and her feet slide under her until she topples from the roof. Her scream is cut short by impact with the thankfully-soft straw (weren't they going to make a scarecrow soon?) below, and the pain sends her spinning into quiet darkness._

—turn back the clock and return to her the family she craves.

There is the vague notion that she must move at some point, for to stay in one place is to surely invite misfortune, but her limbs are heavy, and she is far too numb to truly care if anything should find her. Heavy steps crunch across the rubble, halting a few feet away from her prone form, and the faint scents of cigarette smoke and gunpowder reach her on the soft breeze. _Sebastian_, she thinks, head turning, body following suit, until she is on her back, looking up into concerned hazel eyes. His gaze flicks between her and what is left of her sister, her Elizabeth, and he sighs through his nose. Though he has never laid eyes on the eldest Liddell child, he has seen her photograph on Alice's desk enough times to recognize her, even though this place has twisted her visage into something haunting. There is something he does not recognize nor care for in his partner's eyes, so he reaches down, hauling her unceremoniously to her feet.

"Come on, Liddell." When she continues to stare blandly at him, he gives her a rough shake. "Time to go."

He will not voice it, but after Joseph's little stunt with the gun on the cliffs, he is wary that she is on a similar path, and she disappears so often that the fear that she will be dead the next time he manages to find her is pervasive. Relief floods him when her lips quirk (not truly a smile, but he will take it over the blank, dead gaze), slender fingers lifting to straighten the crooked knot of his tie. From there, they smooth over the lapels of his vest, removing wrinkles and dust as best as they can. He reciprocates by plucking bits of concrete and plaster out of her hair, combing the soft locks over her shoulders. It has grown in her years with the K.C.P.D. When she had joined, one of many rookies, she had worn it in a short, choppy bob, but, due to her self-professed dislike of hair salons, it now grazes the top of her breasts, waved due to the bun it had been it hours before. She huffs at him when he gives the ends a gentle tug, brow furrowing in mock irritation. He cannot piece her back together, but maybe, just _maybe_, he can keep her from falling apart completely.

"Where should we go from here?" he asks.

Alice regards him curiously. "The hospital, I think. I've seen it in the distance no matter where I've ended up, and everything started there… Didn't it?"

Sebastian nods in agreement, staring over her shoulder to study the beacon blazing over the ruins of the city. It is almost as if the ground underneath the institution had risen into a mountain, and it perches at the peak, the light a baleful eye tracking their progress. Not even aware that he is doing it, he weaves his fingers into her hair, cradling the back of her head, thumb stroking the curve of her cheek. _Not everything,_ he muses, returning his attention to her, taking note of the way her eyes flutter under the gentle touch, humming contentedly as his fingers massage the nape of her neck. He should have told her, he realizes belatedly, when she asked him so long ago. Propriety be damned, he should have manned up and told her how much she means to him, that, yes, he does want her, but not just for what she accused him of.

Instead, he says, "Yes," and steps away, pretending that he is searching for something in his pockets to ignore the obvious confusion on her face. When his hand closes around one of the two syringes that he carries, it is all he can do to hide his relief. The instrument is held out to her, and a gruff _here_ indicates that she should take it, which she does.

As she rolls up her sleeve, obviously displeased but resolute all the same, she asks, "Where's Joseph?"

Silence makes her lift her head, and the frustrated scowl that greets her makes the air stale in her lungs. She knows that Oda is not dead—Sebastian would be far more distraught if he were—but the easy way they continue to lose track of him worries her greatly. Of the three of them, his mind is the most orderly, and his grasp of the world is built on solid fact with little room for superstitious wanderings. To be thrust into this world, where little makes sense and the past and present overlap like a twice-recorded tape leaves no doubt in regard to his growing instability. But something is obviously bothering Castellanos, and she wonders what it is.

She wonders if she wants to know.


	11. Chapter 11 - Those That Corrupt

**A/N:** I am aware that the characters display moments that are decidedly out of character. I've been trying to avoid this as much as possible, but there is only so much I can do with the canon information given. RedVoid and MerkinViolet have been more than helpful when it comes to ideas, discussions, and checking my work for errors, and, for that, I am intensely grateful, just as I am to all of you for your continuous support, kind words, and encouragement.

**Warning:** Sexual content. A lot of it. And it's not entirely consensual. Please skip this chapter if such things bother you. You won't miss much in terms of overall plot, and the impact on the characters can easily be gleaned from the following chapters.

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing related to _The Evil Within_, nor do I own the lyrics to any songs that might appear. The name Alice Liddell and her family belong originally to Lewis Carroll, with her appearance drawing heavily from _American McGee's Alice: Madness Returns_. This is a nonprofit work.

* * *

"_I could corrupt you in a heartbeat.  
You think you're so special, think you're so sweet.  
What are you trying? Don't even tempt me.  
Soon, you'll be crying and wishing you'd dreamt me."  
_— "Corrupt," Depeche Mode

Every breath is torture. They rasp against the raw esophagus, bringing with them the tastes of rust and iron, painful when they force the bruised flesh to expand. There is the knowledge that movement is made impossible by the wire binding fragile wrists—that, other than the smooth lace covering the heated flesh between slender thighs, pale flesh has been laid bare. If she had not intervened, she would not be in this place, yet no other option had presented itself when the very one she wished to escape had appeared, reaching for what he viewed as a blasphemous irritation and what she saw as a dear friend with cruel intent so apparent in the set of his jaw, the cold light in his eyes. Every action (_has an equal and opposite reaction, _Newton said, and she doubts that even he knew how true that was) had been purely instinctual, tripping the older detective, using his loss of balance to place him safely behind her. When he had gripped her throat so tightly that she could not breathe, air around them twisting with the depth of his rage, she had struggled, if only to keep his attention focused on her long enough for Sebastian to get away.

"Oh, little mouse," he had said, voice low, cruel, amused. "You should have known better."

The sound of a door opening brings her out of her quiet reflection. Her eyes move, though her head remains still, to observe the intruder from the corner of her eye. Ruvik has discarded his cloak, leaving only the pants slung low on his hips, baring every scar and imperfection to her scrutiny. He appears unconcerned, strolling leisurely to stand at the bedside, dim light casting his face into shadow and reflecting off of the dome implanted into his skull, yet there is something off in his stance, the way he holds his shoulders. When he reaches out to touch her face, she jerks away, and he sneers, hand clamping on her jaw and forcing her to meet his gaze. Alice stares at him coolly, attempting to mask her fear behind nonchalance, as though this is a situation she is well acquainted with. He hums thoughtfully, thumb shifting to press forcefully against her lips, crushing the delicate flesh to her teeth.

When he speaks, it is monotonous, rough. "We are no longer children. Your _tricks_ are useless." He moves then, kneeling between her legs, back arching so that he hovers above her. "And I," he says, "do not have the time to deal with them."

His hand drops to curl around her neck, head dipping so that he can press his lips to hers. When that does not elicit a response, he lets out what might be a snarl, teeth tugging harshly enough on her lower lip to draw blood. The sting makes her eyes water, self-loathing curling in her gut when she does exactly what he expects and draws in a sharp breath. The kiss is lazy, victorious, his mouth moving leisurely over her own, and he braces himself on one arm, pinning the other between them, as though he is actually concerned with her comfort. Her turning her head to dislodge him does not deter him; he simply transfers his attention to the tender skin of her throat, ravishing with lips and tongue and teeth, peppering it with livid marks, a testament to his claim. A mixture of a whine and a whimper leaves her when he finds that sensitive place under her ear, and she feels the way his lips curl, pleased, at the noise, nipping none too gently until the sensation threatens to overwhelm her.

_Ruben . . _.

"Ruvik, please." Her voice is hoarse. "Stop."

His displeasure is evident the sudden increase of pressure from his hand and her resulting inability to breathe. Her back bows, wrists straining against her bonds, and the pain of the wire cutting into them is drowned beneath the agony of his cruel ministrations to her already bruised throat. _I hate you_, she thinks. _I hate you so fucking much, but I can't… Ruben, please, I can't… _Just when she is certain that she will lose consciousness once again, he relents, shifting his hand to grip her hair and forcefully tilt her head back. His stare is burning, cold, remorseless, and she nearly cries out when he continues to pull on the strands wrapped around his fist, bones in her neck straining and popping beneath the onslaught.

"You will _not_," he snarls, "leave me again."

"No," she breathes, but whether in agreement or rebuttal she cannot say. The soft word apparently pleases him, because he releases her hair, lowering to press a tender kiss to her forehead.

"Good girl," he murmurs, and the hand that has caused her so much suffering drifts down, caressing the skin of her shoulders as it goes, to tease the underside of her breast. When it shifts so dexterous digits can pluck her nipple, her hips arch, and she is forced to bite her tongue to contain the moan that wants to escape. It has been a very long time since she allowed anyone to get close enough for such intimate touches, and the burst of pleasure is almost enough to eclipse her loathing. Ruvik watches her, eyes hooded, as she fights against the inevitable. He takes the tender nub between his fingers and rolls it, breath catching in his throat when she rubs against him once again. A memory tugs at him, of a small boy reading anatomical charts for the first time, blood rushing into gaunt cheeks when his mind made an all-too adult connection. As if to fulfil that child's wish, he leans down, mouth replacing his hand, and tugs her nipple between his teeth.

Alice cries out, hands tugging at her bonds, filled with the desire to both push him away and pull him closer. _I need to_—stroke, strike—_touch you_. When he looks up at her, his eyes darken. She makes a splendid figure stretched out beneath him, a seductress, Persephone offered to Hades in supplication. He needs… A groan is torn from his chest when she hooks a leg around his waist, drawing him closer, grinding her hips against his. One of his hands snaps down to clutch her thigh, holding her in place as he reciprocates, the other lavishing attention on her neglected breast. Ruvik's grasp on his control is slowly fracturing, and he cannot be sure whether it is his own desire or the way she reacts to him that is causing it.

_What would you do if I told you_—

"I hate you," she nearly sobs, and it is as true as her love for him. He stills momentarily at her words, lifting to study her. She has turned her head to press her face against her arm, chest heaving with every breath. There is the rustle of fabric as he stands, cold hand trailing across her hips, and then he jerks her underwear down her legs, baring her completely to him.

"Is that so?" To her chagrin, he sounds more amused than angry. When he reaches between her legs to stroke the heated flesh, his fingers come away glistening. "Do not lie to me, Alice."

_It isn't a lie,_ she wants to say, but the words die on her lips as he bites her inner thigh, trailing nips and bruises until his nose brushes against her labia. _Don't, please, don't (stop) do that, don't you dare (stop)_. She bucks when his tongue slides lazily over her clit, pleasure white-hot behind her eyelids. He chuckles darkly against her, and the vibrations wrench a moan from her, even as he suckles it between his teeth. Each touch is rough—sensual despite his inexperience—and a feral groan leaves him as his name passes her lips in a whispered prayer. He replaces his tongue with his thumb so he can lean up to kiss her hungrily, and the last shreds of her resistance shatter. Alice whines, once again tugging against the wires around her arms, and they slither away. Once freed, she hooks a leg over his hips, rolling them so she straddles him.

"Little mouse," he rasps, when her tongue traces the seam between scars and the unmarred skin of his neck. She is hot, burning against his ruined flesh, yet he finds that he cannot push her away, does not want to. Ruvik's confidence is not gone, but she can feel the uncertainty in how he grabs her hips, and there is a fierce, tainted pride in the knowledge that she is the first person to see him this way. At her urging, his head falls back, allowing her full access to the column of his throat, and he is rewarded with a stinging nip to his Adam's apple, though she soothes the irritation with a soft kiss. Curious, he observes the way she shifts above him to reach the zipper on his pants, but he stops her before she can pull it down.

Before she can ask why, he is sitting up, one hand splayed on her lower back while the other slips between her thighs, fingers gliding across her until they slide inside of her. Alice shudders, head lolling on her neck as a quiet cry claws its way out of her throat. He pumps them slowly, thumb flicking lazily against her clit, and he is rewarded by a whimpered plea. Control is slowly returning to him, though it amuses him how easily she tried to wrench it away. When his fingers curl, her back arches, so he does it again, filing every noise, every way she twists in response away for future reference.

"Sebastian, please, I…"

_Cologne and whiskey and cigarettes and warmth as she is pinned beneath him, hands clutching his shoulders to push him away._

A moment's pause is all it takes for her to recognize her mistake, but before she can rectify it, he has thrown her to the side, forcing her onto her stomach, wrenching her arms behind her back. Barbed wire snakes around her throat, her wrists, her ankles, fresh blood oozing where it punctures. There is no need to look at him to see his fury, and the metallic sound of a zipper is all the warning she has before he is pressing roughly into her, gripping the coil around her throat and yanking her head back. Her spine arches painfully even as pleasure radiates from her core.

"You dare," he breathes, but finds himself unable to finish the thought when she moves against him. Instead, he snarls, pulling out and snapping his hips forward brutally. Is he truly so repulsive to her that she must think of another to find any pleasure in this? No matter. When he is finished, _he _will be the only one she craves.


	12. Chapter 12 - Those That Scar

**A/N: **I really, really need to give a huge shout-out to MerkinViolet; she approached me about being my beta for this story, and has dealt with all the mishaps that have occurred since then (including, but not limited to, delays, e-mail difficulties, and my own sometimes incoherent word vomit) without any complaints. Without her, this story would probably be worse than it is, so, if you want to, send her a huge thank you for keeping my ass in high gear!

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing related to _The Evil Within_, nor do I own the lyrics to any songs that might appear. The name Alice Liddell and her family belong originally to Lewis Carroll, with her appearance drawing heavily from _American McGee's Alice: Madness Returns_. This is a nonprofit work.

* * *

"_My ghost, where'd you go?  
I can't find you in the body sleeping next to me.  
My ghost, where'd you go?  
What happened to the soul that you used to be?"  
_— "Ghost," Halsey

_Snip. Snip-snip. _

Raven locks drift lazily to the floor, coiling on the dilapidated wood as ebony serpents dozing in the watery light. Each soft click of the scissors brings a petty sense of relief as strands are haphazardly removed until the remaining ones frame the bruised face, the longest grazing the curve of the shoulders. It is a messy bob, sleek hair waving gently now that it is free of its own weight. Slender digits raise to press certain sections behind the shell of the left ear, tugging gently at the ends as if to reassure that the task is truly finished. Dropping her hand to her side, Alice stares at her reflection in the cracked mirror, noting each and every contusion and cut that mars her pale flesh, all serving as a reminder of the brutality she endured. The virescent hues gazing back at her are haunted, burning with a fury that she has not felt since the death of her family, and framed by dark circles that mark her exhaustion. Without her hair forming its usual inky curtain, the shape of her face is softened somehow, despite the hard set of her jaw, the firm line of her lips.

Ruvik seared his name in her bones with her blood, carving out the hollow cavity of her chest to fill her with his malicious hatred, leaving nothing of the tender, girlish love in its place. His claim to her is mapped out across her nude form, his violence present in the imprints of his teeth left on her thighs. The wrath that consumes him decorates her wrists, her ankles, and her neck in crimson ringlets broken by pinpricks in her skin, a testament to his cruelty and disregard. Alice turns to study the vivid lines that stretch from her shoulders to her hips, spanning the expanse of her back, around which dried blood flakes with every movement. A small snarl curls her lips as she pivots violently on her heel, stalking toward the door that leads to the hall and then to the bath, uncaring of her nudity. The water that pours from the tub's faucet is surprisingly clear, and it takes several dips before it no longer tints with the combined grime and blood that coats her frame. Once she feels sufficiently cleansed, she returns to the bedroom, where she finds remnants of her clothing in the wardrobe. After bandaging the wounds she can reach, and sans undergarments, she tugs on her jeans, boots, and a spare button-down that dangles from the wrack.

A single backward glance is all she spares, checking briefly to see if she is forgetting anything of value, and then she weaves her way through the halls, which are blessedly vacant of any occupants. Sebastian has been here, if the lack of any sort of supplies is any clue, but the thought of him is something both bitter and soothing, so she does her best to push it away. The large door in the foyer stands open. The hall on the other side leads to a small dissection room with crude tools, rusted from neglect. Alice merely glances at them before pressing on, stepping through a door that leads to an underground chamber with a single tub connected to a strange device. Jimenez, or what is left of him, is sprawled and splattered in a crater in the floor. This, at least, brings the ghost of a smile to her face—she does not mean to find amusement in such a thing, but he is, at least partially, responsible for the current misfortunes befalling her team, and to see him reduced to something so pathetic is oddly rewarding. A clipboard rests by the mangled corpse, and she lifts it to peruse its contents.

Scrawled in red, no doubt in the doctor's own blood, are the words: _The boy is the key. He survived being connected to Ruvik before. He's the way out._

Everything seems to fall into place at once, leaving her stunned. None of them are supposed to be here, she realizes, only Leslie, because, if the boy is their key to escape, there is little doubt that Ruvik can and intends to use him as his own way out, a new body to replace the charred husk that remains. This makes finding Leslie her top priority, but she is undecided on whether she will attempt to remove him from this place safely or put a bullet in his skull. Anything to keep Ruvik contained. Squaring her shoulders, she moves toward the only other door, opening it to stumble into an office building of some sort. From the floor above her, the sounds of someone or something exerting themselves and a door scraping ring out; investigating reveals Sebastian grunting as he tries to open a door that is blocked by a heavy shelf. It takes him a moment to realize that she is there, and he does a double take when he sees how different she looks.

"Alice…?"

"Have you seen Leslie?" When he does not respond, she presses. "It's important that I find him. Where is he?"

Sebastian studies her through narrowed eyes. "How the fuck should I know? He took off right before you got here." Alice makes no move to aid him, prompting him to snap, "Look, I'm having a pretty shitty time right now. Kidman shot me and disappeared and the kid spooked and left before opening the door. Your help would be greatly appreciated."

Alice ponders this for a few seconds, and then she steps forward and grips the shelf, heaving it out of the way. He shoves the door open, glancing around as though the Haunted lurk just out of sight. When no threat presents itself, he turns to face her and grips her shoulders, too tightly to be comforting. Part of him wants to give her a rough shake to break her out of whatever mindset she has fallen into while yet another desires nothing more or less than to pull her close to reassure himself that she is alive. The gauze covering her throat and wrists leave little doubt as to what she has been through since Ruvik took her away. Green eyes peer at him curiously, reminding him eerily of that little girl he had found wandering the streets one day with soot staining her nightgown and tears tracking through the ashes on her cheeks, and he releases her as suddenly as if she had burned him. A crooked grin quirks her lips, but he cannot find it in himself to wonder at her sudden bemusement. Instead of facing that unnerving stare, he twists so that his back to her and rubs his face with his hand. Joseph is losing his grip on himself, Kidman is working some unknown agenda, and now Alice, the one he had expected to stay relatively unscathed, has returned to him as though she were a stranger.

"Why do you want to find him?" His voice is tired, almost pained.

Alice tilts her head. "He needs protecting. Out of all of us, he's the most ill-equipped to handle the situation."

"Is that all?"

"Why wouldn't it be?"

_Because of Jimenez and his experiment. Because Ruvik wants out. Because Kidman is searching for Leslie, too._ Sebastian does not voice his thoughts, because the idea that Alice is no longer entirely on his side has begun to feel like truth. They remain that way in silence until Alice steps up next to him, face tilted up to gaze upon his own, and the feeling of her hand settling on his upper arm startles him out of his quiet rumination. _I love you,_ he thinks, and a quiet agony pulls the corners of his mouth down, _but I can't follow you wherever you're going. _ Almost as if she has heard his wordless confession, she backs away, eyes glittering with what could be contempt or unshed tears, and he knows, as certainly as if she has said it, that she has no intention of escaping with him until whatever goal she has is accomplished, even if it kills her. He reaches out to her briefly, hand hovering in the air in front of her face, and then he pivots and stalks away, unwilling to stay and suffocate under things left unspoken.

Alice watches him go, soundless in her grief. There is nothing she can say now, no time for adoration that should have been expressed long ago. Her lungs feel as though they are trapped in an ever-tightening vice, forcing her to breathe shallowly, and there is no cure for the pain that coils in that hollow place in her chest, where the roses that had once bloomed had been crushed by a vengeful fist. With no more time to waste, she makes her way in the opposite direction. The way to the hospital is long, the roads strewn with rubble and, in some places, gone entirely, winding ever downward to the solitary path that remains. It leads to the institution, which perches in the chasm like the proverbial spider in its web, waiting to snag unwary insects. Standing halfway along the uneven platforms is a single figure clothed in a dirty patient's uniform, snowy hair serving as a stark contrast to the bleak surroundings. _Leslie_. Alice picks her way over to him, but every time that she is within arm's reach, he warps away, moving both of them closer to the building. She catches up to him at the front doors, and he stares at her hopefully.

"Alice?"

The soft, quavering tones cause her to close her eyes as if struck. "Yeah. I'm here."

"Leslie can go home?"

"Yeah," she says heavily. "Yeah, you can."

He smiles at this, dimples forming in his joy, and faces the door once again. "Won't they be surprised?"

What he does next surprises her and weakens her resolve. A cold hand finds her own, fingers lacing through hers as he rests his head on her shoulder, hair tickling her cheek. It is as simple as a child seeking comfort, as thoughtless as if they have known each other for the entirety of their lives, and she nearly abandons her early idea of ending his life. Without truly meaning to, she presses a soft kiss to the crown of his head, and he nuzzles against the side of her neck in response. Then she grips the ornate handle and pushes the door open, tugging him along when she steps inside. Leslie looks around, mouth gaping at the remnants of violent acts, and she nudges him gently to get him moving. She knows, without being sure of how, that they must go to the lighthouse in the courtyard if this will ever end, so she leads the way there, pausing only when Leslie tugs uncertainly on her arm. They make it, only to discover a gentle rain where the harsh sun had been before, and both of them pause to revel in the sensation of it pattering against their faces.

"Scared," Leslie murmurs, "scared."

"I know," she replies. "I am, too. But we'll be alright."

Gray eyes stare into her own emerald hues. "Promise?"

"I promise."

He nods, apparently pleased, and pulls her along as he walks to the building. She follows as he follows the curved stairs and through the left door at the top. However, Alice is unprepared for the room that is revealed. A machine stands at the center, piercing through the sturdy glass floor that separates them from the lower level, powered by countless wires and tubes that snake around the room. Circling its base are a number of tubs like the one from the mansion, and each one contains a body. Disbelief floods her when she sees first Sebastian, then Joseph, Leslie, Connelly, and Marcelo—each evidently deceased—and herself, the inky locks she once had floating on the surface of whatever liquid she rests in. Each person is connected to the machine through a conduit that appears to have been inserted at the nape of the neck, and, at the center of the device is a small, glass sphere housing a disembodied brain. A monitor rests at the side of every tub, displaying the vital signs of whoever is inside. A cursory glance reveals that, other than Connelly and Jimenez, everyone appears stable. At a loss for what to say, she turns to face Leslie and finds him watching her coolly, as though…

"Do you like it?"

Her heart, or what is left of it, nearly ceases. "Ruvik?"

"This is the culmination of my work, though it was completed in a way that I did not anticipate." His approach is slow, steady, matching her pace for pace until she is cornered against the machine with nowhere else to go. When his hand reaches up to press against her forehead, she tries to jerk away, only for him to hold her in place. "Allow me to show you."

Piercing, ringing pains threatens to split her skull, and then there is nothing.


End file.
